


A Wide Patchwork Sky

by Cinderstrato



Category: DCU (Comics), Green Lantern (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Justice League of America (Comics), Justice Riders (Comics), The Flash (Comics)
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Western, Bounty Hunters, Cattle-Rustling and Frontier Crime, Class Differences, Complicated Relationships, Domestic Fluff, Extremely Dubious Historical Revisionism, F/F, F/M, Falling In Love, Found Family, Friendship, Frontier Justice, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, Lex Luthor as a Mustache-Twirling Railroad Tycoon, M/M, Mail Order Brides, Marriage of Convenience, Parenthood, Past Abuse, Period Typical Attitudes, Physical Disability, Poverty, Revenge, Sexual Content, Sinestro the Gold Prospector, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:29:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 92,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23971603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cinderstrato/pseuds/Cinderstrato
Summary: When homesteader and lonely widower Barry Allen cast his lot for an arranged mail-order marriage, he expected a sensible schoolmistress who would help him tend to the farm and raise his young nephew, Wally.He got Hal Jordan instead.(Alternate Title: Little Hal on the Prairie)
Relationships: Barry Allen & Jay Garrick, Barry Allen & Wally West, Barry Allen/Hal Jordan, Barry Allen/Iris West, Clark Kent/Bruce Wayne, Diana (Wonder Woman)/Barbara Minerva, Dick Grayson & Wally West, Dinah Lance/Oliver Queen, Guy Gardner & Hal Jordan, Guy Gardner/Tora Olafsdotter, Hal Jordan & John Stewart, Hal Jordan & Kyle Rayner, Hal Jordan & Wally West, Iolande/Soranik Natu, Jay Garrick/Joan Garrick, John Stewart/Katma Tui, Jonathan "Pa" Kent/Martha Kent, Kyle Rayner & Wally West, Michael Carter/Ted Kord, Ralph Dibny/Sue Dibny
Comments: 174
Kudos: 160





	1. By Mail and Rail

**Author's Note:**

> I have no excuse for this. The Old West mail-order marriage trope is one of my guilty pleasures when it comes to romance novels. It’s silly and indulgent, but the idea of Hal Jordan as a begrudging mail-order groom was so hilarious to me that I couldn’t resist. 
> 
> I’m taking a few cues from the Justice Riders comic, and obviously this is a fantasy version of the Wild West in which society is considerably more progressive in some ways -- I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t dig into the ethical and sociopolitical ramifications of Manifest Destiny.

* * *

* * *

**A WIDE PATCHWORK SKY**

_By Mail and Rail_

* * *

* * *

  
  


For once in his life, Bartholomew Allen had arrived for an appointment early. 

Wally clung to Barry’s hand, kicking his legs against the bench, his head going every which way as he watched the trickle of passengers exiting the rail platform with their steam trunks and packages. His hair, which Barry had painstakingly slicked down into a tidy part, was already bouncing back into wild red curls in the mid-summer heat, and his starched collar was rumpled. His boot-laces had somehow come undone too. Barry bent to tie them with an inward sigh. 

Once he’d done those up, he noticed that Wally’s fidgeting had managed to work the top button of his shirt out of its eyelet. “ _Wally_.” 

“Uncle Barry,” Wally parroted, a hint of a whine in his voice. Barry had bribed him with the promise of penny candy from Dibny’s Dry Goods, but Wally’s patience, which came in short supply on the best days, was wearing thin. 

“Sit still for a few more minutes. This is Miss Jordan’s train.” Barry surreptitiously wiped his damp palms against his trousers. He sat forward on the bench, sweeping his gaze over the station in the sudden fear that he’d managed to miss the arrival of his guest while he was busy fussing over Wally.

It was an absurd worry, really, considering that the Central City rail station was scarcely more than a short wooden platform and a dilapidated ticket booth. He just wished he knew who it was he was looking for. His eyes sought out every lady who disembarked with the conductor’s assistance, seeking some sign of recognition, someone who looked as anxious as Barry felt. 

The conductor was proceeding to the last passenger car now, and Barry’s pulse quickened. The riders filtered out in an orderly line. There was a young woman with blond ringlets pinned beneath a dove-gray hat ---- but no, no, she was on the arm of a gentleman, and they exited the platform together with their trunks. Ah, there was a lady without a chaperone. . . . wearing widow’s weeds and towing along two squabbling children. There was another woman, white-haired and seventy if she were a day. Following her was a lass in a ruffled pinafore who couldn’t be older than fifteen. 

On the queue went, and no one approached Barry’s bench. The conductor hopped up into the compartment, only to return a moment later to fasten a length of chain across the stairs. 

She wasn’t coming. 

Barry felt a moment’s disappointment, followed by a swell of relief. Miss H. Jordan of Nashville had obviously had second thoughts about their arrangement. Well, there was nothing for it now but to go home and forget the whole venture. As he stood to usher Wally to his feet, he spied three gentlemen lingering by the ticket office, glancing warily around the empty platform.

There was a burly red-haired man gripping the hand of a boy with smooth black hair, but it was the last of the trio who caught Barry’s eye -- perhaps because of the careless, languid way the young man stood, one lean hip cocked insouciantly. He was staring at Barry openly, and upon seeing that Barry had noticed him, he strode towards their bench. The redhead and the boy tagged along at his heels.

“Mister Allen?” the stranger ventured. At Barry’s instinctive nod, he stuck out his hand to shake, offering a dimpled smile that was too practiced to be sincere. His eyes and hair were cherrywood-brown, set against an olive complexion. “A pleasure. I’m Hal Jordan.” 

“You’re H. Jordan?” Barry repeated, completely flummoxed. He could feel the agency’s letter burning a hole in his pocket. 

Predictably, Wally’s attention honed in on the smallest of the three strangers, the boy who was perhaps a few years Wally’s senior. “Who’re you?” he demanded, slipping down from the bench to rock on the balls of his feet. 

Before Barry could scold him for being rude, the other boy narrowed his eyes. “Kyle. Who’re _you?”_

Wally scowled. Striving for some control over the situation, Barry bent to address the boy himself, settling a warning hand on Wally’s bony shoulder. “It’s a real pleasure to make your acquaintance, Kyle. I’m Barry, and this is my nephew, Wallace West.” He glanced over at Mr. Jordan and raised a questioning brow. 

“These here are Kyle 'n Guy, my brothers,” Mr. Jordan said, so smoothly that Barry suspected he was lying. It was hard to imagine three men who could look _less_ alike; sharing blood was only plausible if at least one of them was born on the wrong side of the blanket. 

The big redhead stepped forward to shake Barry’s hand with a look of poorly-concealed contempt. Suddenly aware that Wally was no longer leaning against his leg, Barry turned to find his nephew a few yards away on the boardwalk. Wally had his nose pressed flat against the Dibnys’ store front, eyeing the jars filled with colorful boiled sweets. 

Barry took a deep breath. “Mister Jordan----”

“Call me Hal.” 

Lord Almighty, this was embarrassing. “Hal. I think there may have been a misunderstanding.” 

Hal tugged a crumpled letter out of his trouser pocket, smoothing it out on his knee before he handed it over. “You’re B.H. Allen of Keystone, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” Barry said. He studied the letter. It had the agency letterhead and an official seal, and that was certainly his name and address. “I was. . . . “ He cleared his throat, unaccountably sheepish. “I was, well, to be honest, I was expecting a lady.” 

The red-haired Jordan snorted. “Hal ain’t no lady. Though if he were, I reckon he’d be better suited for a whorehouse.” 

“Not in front of the kid,” Hal snapped. 

Not that the kid appeared to have overheard the exchange. Young Kyle’s attention had been captured by the pretty stained-glass windows of the Assay Office across the street. Barry reckoned he was about eleven or twelve, too old to be a child but not yet a man, as his gangly limbs didn’t fit his body and his brown skin was spotty. 

“Wally, come here.” Barry opened his coin purse and picked out a shiny quarter, pressing it into the boy’s palm. “You and Kyle buy some candy while Mister Jordan and I talk.”

Wally looked overwhelmed by the possibilities of how much he could purchase with a whole quarter. “Can I have a caramel?”

“‘ _May_ I.’ Choose anything you can afford with what I gave you,” Barry instructed. “There’s more than enough for you to share with Kyle, you hear? Mind your manners with Missus Dibny.”

Wally bobbed his head eagerly, clutching the quarter fervently in one small fist and grabbing Kyle by the hand with the other. The older boy looked startled, resisting long enough to look over at his brothers for approval. Hal waved him off, and the two scuttled into the store.

Barry returned Hal’s letter, thrusting empty hands awkwardly into his pockets. “Look, Mister Jordan---”

“Hal.”

“Hal. I think there may have been a mix-up at the agency. I was told that a schoolmistress in Rochester appeared to be a good match for me and had received my letter favorably. Then there was a delay, and I was sent a second notice saying there had been a clerical error, and the schoolmistress was H. Jordan, from Nashville.” The absurdity of the whole situation finally pushed past his bewilderment, and he had to laugh a little. “Clearly that’s not the case.”

“You can call him Hortensia if'n it makes you feel better,” the redhead said. 

“Shut up, Guy," Hal growled.

“I don’t necessarily have a problem with you being a gentleman,” Barry added hastily. “That is to say, you were the one who accepted my letter?”

Hal nodded. 

“And you’re . . . a schoolteacher?” 

Guy laughed uproariously, enough that the ticketmaster leaned out of his booth to level a disapproving stare at them. “Him, a schoolmarm? Oh, ain't that _rich_.” 

“I’m a hired hand,” Hal said, eyeing Barry in such a way as to dare him to make something of it. The toothy, ingratiating smiles were nowhere to be seen now.

“I see.” Barry was about to suggest that he could transport their luggage to a boarding house for them in his wagon when it struck him that none of the Jordans had a steam trunk or valise. Guy was carrying an overstuffed knapsack and a battered hatbox held together with twine, but otherwise they appeared to have brought nothing but the clothes on their backs. Those clothes were respectable enough but visibly well-worn.

Barry glanced over at the saloon down the street and then at the storefront window, where he could see Wally and Kyle paying Sue Dibny for their sweets. “Why don’t we all get out of this terrible heat and have something to drink?”

The brothers exchanged a weighty glance. Guy shrugged. “What the hell. Why not? You seem alright for a stuffed shirt, Allen.” 

“We’d be obliged,” Hal said dryly. 

They collected the boys, who had managed to amass an alarming amount of candy. No doubt Sue had generously slipped an extra scoop into the waxed paper bag. Resigned to the inevitability of Wally complaining of a stomach-ache for the next week, Barry let him dig into his spoils once they sat down at a table in Gold’s Saloon. Gold’s wasn’t a rowdy place now that Sheriff Prince had cleaned up the local dens with her posse. There weren’t any dancing girls, and while Mr. Gold was rumored to be something of a cardsharp and a gambler, fights were uncommon enough that Barry didn’t have many qualms about allowing Wally inside. 

The boys found tentative common ground in a shared love of sweet things. Kyle seemed not to know what many of the candies were, so Wally was educating him on the merits of his favorites. Guy watched them, looking amused by Wally’s lecture on the differences between molasses pulls and salt water taffy, but Hal appeared distracted. He kept shifting restlessly in his chair. 

Barry went to fetch the drinks at the bartop from the buxom Miss Bea, who was arguing with Mr. Gold behind the counter. Barry waited patiently for them to stop bickering, but neither spared him a glance. He cleared his throat, only to startle when a large, magnified pair of bespectacled eyes popped up from behind the bar. 

It was Mr. Gold’s business partner, the town’s machinist and resident curiosity. Barry had lived in Central City for most of his youth, and he didn’t even know the man’s real name -- everyone called him ‘Beetle’. Some folks thought he was plum crazy, wasting his family’s fortune on tinkering with his strange contraptions, but Barry had always found him to be friendly enough, if a little odd. 

“What’s your poison?” Beetle asked Barry amiably. There was a streak of grease winding its way from his chin up to his ear. 

By the time Barry returned to the table with some good Glasgow ales, a bottle of applejack, and two glasses of fizzy lemonade for the boys, he’d been treated to a rambling treatise on the feasibility of miniaturized combustion engines for a horseless carriage. 

“Sorry about that,” Barry said in an undertone, setting the tray on the table. 

Hal was watching the bar, where Beetle’s attempt to mediate the argument had evidently made it worse -- Miss Bea looked mad enough to spit fire, and Gold had put himself bodily between them, his handsome face twisted up in alarm. “Interestin' folks,” he remarked. 

“It’s an interesting town.” Barry poured the drinks, choosing brown beer for himself. He was no Friend of Temperance, but neither was he accustomed to downing straight liquor in the mid-morning. Guy evidently was, since he tossed back four fingers of applejack like water.

“Hal,” Kyle whispered with a hushed sort of awe, staring down at his lemonade in fascination. “It tastes like _bubbles_.”

“That so?” Hal said, smiling. “You like it, kid?”

“Mmhm.” Kyle gulped the rest of it down with a pleased hum. 

Wally looked up from where he was cramming yet another taffy into his mouth -- his cheeks already bulging like a squirrel’s, and _Lord_ did Barry despair of the boy’s manners -- to ask incredulously, “You don’t know what lemonade is? Uncle Barry buys it for me all the time.”

“Our lemonade doesn’t have bubbles,” Kyle said, a mite defensively.

“It’s carbonation,” Barry explained. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it, Kyle. And Wally, don’t talk with your mouth full.” 

There was a brief commotion over at the bar, but it was over before Barry could turn around. Mr. Gold was scrubbing at himself with a rag, his flashy mustard-colored waistcoat dripping with what looked like red wine, and Miss Bea had stormed out the door, cussing a blue streak the whole way. Titters spread across the saloon, but no one was laughing as loudly as Beetle.

Barry shook his head, turning back to find Guy and Hal both chuckling. 

“An interestin' town, you said,” Hal murmured. He tipped his glass and drained it, tanned throat bobbing, and then licked the suds from his lips. He gave Barry a questioning glance when their eyes met. 

Barry shifted, embarrassed. He saw the corner of Hal’s cheek lift, revealing a dimple in its hollow. 

“Not bad for one-bit brew,” Hal said. “You can ask.”

“Pardon?”

“You can ask me whatever it is you’re obviously itchin' to ask.” 

Barry took a sip to cover his discomfort. “How old are you, really?”

Hal’s mouth twisted. “Twenty. I’ll be twenty-one in a month.” He tilted his head slightly, considering. “You’re, what, twenty-five?”

“Twenty-eight,” Barry said. “Have you always lived in Nashville?”

“No,” Hal said, and he left it at that. 

Guy had produced a battered deck of cards from the hatbox, roping the boys into a game to keep them occupied. Barry watched how the two Jordans guided Wally through the rules, working so seamlessly as they shuffled and dealt the cards that it was clear that they did this often. 

“Do you like cards, Hal?” Barry asked, for a lack of anything better to say.

Hal set his empty glass on the table with a quiet _clink_. “All due respect, you’ve already called this off. No need to pretend to be interested in me.” 

“I didn’t say I was calling it off.” 

He’d been fretting over this for weeks, worrying over every detail and contemplating every way in which this scheme might go horribly awry. Finding that he’d been sent this man and his brothers had thrown him over the saddle, certainly, but Barry could keep an open mind, and he wasn’t keen on repeating the process over again. 

It was Ralph who’d put the idea into his head. An old bachelor friend of the Dibnys had made a good match through the agency. Ralph had talked the idea up for months, arguing that Barry knew almost everyone in Central City _and_ Keystone -- if he hadn’t found anyone in five years of widowhood, he would have to look elsewhere for companionship. It hadn’t taken long for Sue to hop onboard too, as the notion of falling in love via letter struck her own adventurous nature as terribly romantic. 

Barry had pointed out, quite reasonably, that compatibility was entirely a matter of chance. He had no guarantee that he would even _like_ whomever the agency matched him with. A formal letter or two were no substitute for a genuine conversation. Seeing that he was growing tired of the topic, the Dibnys had eventually subsided, but the notion, insidious, had gotten itself stuck. After a harsh winter that had kept Wally and him isolated at the farm for almost three months straight, he’d felt the lack of adult company more keenly than he had in years. The harrowing thought of spending another miserable winter alone had made him vulnerable to doing something impulsive.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Barry had paid the princely agency fee and sent in his letter, sketching out the briefest picture of what he had to offer a prospective spouse. He’d been honest, not attempting to inflate his prospects -- he had a modest homestead, a modest amount of money, and a modest manner of living. He loved Wally, the Garricks, and his farm, in that order, and would endeavor to be a kind and faithful husband. 

Maybe Hal wasn’t the well-educated mother figure for Wally that he’d expected, but it seemed overly hasty to declare the entire venture a loss. 

“You’re kiddin',” Hal said flatly. 

“I’m not. I figure we should at least get to know each other, given that we’ve gone to all this trouble. That’s why you're here, isn’t it?”

Hal sat back in his chair, stretching out his long legs. “Suppose so.”

“You don’t sound too sure,” Barry observed. 

Hal just smiled. 

“You can ask me anything you’d like to know,” Barry offered. “I was born and raised here in this town, but I moved out to Keystone when I was nineteen. My father was a tutor, and my mother was the tailor’s daughter. Where were you born, Hal? What sort of people were your parents?”

He shrugged. “California. My parents are dead. I’ve got no family.” 

Barry raised his brows. He cut a significant glance toward Kyle and Guy, who were playing rummy with Wally for a pile of lemon drops. Hal’s eyes closed, and he looked so annoyed with himself that Barry nearly laughed. 

“Hell,” Hal muttered. “I knew no one would believe it. May I?” Without waiting for an answer, he poured another finger in Guy’s snifter and drank it down himself. “Guy and Kyle are cousins, but they’re no relation to me.” 

“So why pretend they were your brothers?”

“Kyle’s parents are dead, Guy can’t take care of Kyle even if he wanted to, so that leaves me. I’ve been with 'em since I was seventeen. We stick together.” 

That raised more questions than it answered, but Barry let it lie for now. There was a more pressing question that he wanted an answer for. “What made you choose my letter?” 

Hal was silent for a minute, rubbing a blunt finger along the grainy wood of the table. “You want the pat answer or the honest-to-God truth?” he asked. “Since you spotted me a drink, I figure I owe you the choice.” 

“I’ll take the truth,” Barry said.

“You were the first letter I got, complete luck of the draw. I was willin' to take about anybody. The agency paid for the tickets and gave me a stipend to use for the journey. I figured if I really hated you, I could use the money to rent a room for us here while Guy and I looked for work.” 

“Well, you seem a practical man.” 

Hal pursed his lips slightly. “Some folks might call that dishonest.” 

“They can call it what they like. We agreed to meet each other and see if marriage might suit us. The way I see it, nobody’s broken any promises yet.” 

Hal’s face registered the briefest flash of surprise. After a moment, he lifted a hand to scratch at his chin, a speculative light kindling in his eyes. “You’re a farmer.” 

“Yes?”

“D'you need farmhands? Guy may not seem it, but he’s strong as a bull and a hard worker. Kyle’s quick -- he can sew and cook, and he’s a fair hand at carpentry if he has some help. If you know anyone who needs some fancy lettering done, he used to paint signs. He’s got a real eye for it. He’s smart.” 

“And what about you?” 

Hal offered him a crooked grin. “I’m a handsome bastard.” 

Taken aback, Barry laughed. He _was_ a handsome bastard, now that Barry could really get a look at him -- sloe-eyed and strong-jawed, with heavy brows and lashes and those dimples set into the divots of his mouth. The end of his nose turned up, just a tad, and one of his canines was chipped like he’d gotten it cracked in a tussle. That was enough to make his face interesting as well as handsome. 

He would probably be a capable hand too, with a build like his, and Guy looked like he’d have no trouble tossing a caber. The farm was prosperous enough to keep Barry and Wally well-fed and the house in good repair, but what assets Barry owned were bound up in the land; he wouldn’t get an influx of cash money until after the autumn harvest. He couldn’t pay wages for farmhands. He and his nearest neighbors helped each other, and it was an arrangement that had suited them for years. “I’m sure you’d do fine work, but I don’t think I’d be able to pay you at a fair rate,” he said delicately. 

Hal nodded, like he hadn’t expected anything else. “Then I reckon that’s the end of it. You don’t happen to know if there’s any work to be had around here, do you?”

That was that, wasn’t it? It had been a failed experiment, and while it stung to have wasted hard-earned money on it, at least the Dibnys couldn’t say that he hadn’t tried. He felt badly that Mr. Jordan and his companions were in a pickle, but he could ask around town and see if any of the locals needed an extra hand. He meant to tell Hal as much, but instead he found himself saying, “You and your . . . er, brothers could stay with us for a spell.”

The look Hal gave him was hard to decipher. “Excuse me?”

Well. He hadn’t even realized he was pondering making the offer until it was already off his tongue, but he was hardly going to take it back, and it wasn’t a bad notion besides. He felt somewhat responsible for the whole mishap, and Hal had obviously pinned all his hopes on this venture. Barry counted himself a decent judge of character, and he liked Hal already -- while he wasn’t the most forthcoming, the man was easy to talk to and put on no airs, and the gentle way he spoke to Kyle didn’t seem put-upon. It had been a long time since they had hosted guests at the farm, and it would be good for Wally to have a friend. The company, even if it was only temporary, might prove a welcome relief for both of them.

“You’ve come all this way,” Barry said reasonably. “There’s no sense in turning around again so soon. Do you -- I don’t mean to be rude, but do you have money for three train tickets back to Nashville?” 

The way Hal’s jaw tightened angrily was answer enough. 

“It’s no trouble to have you stay on with us until you decide what to do. I’m sure that much traveling has been hard on all of you. This way we can spend a few weeks together, see if we suit. If we don’t, then you can go home, no hard feelings.” 

Hal tilted his head, and his gaze was so piercing that it was difficult for Barry to hold it. “No foolin'?”

“No fooling,” Barry assured him. “I don’t think you mean me any harm, do you? You don’t strike me as the type. Besides, we’ve got plenty of room at the farm and we hardly ever get visitors. It’s only polite, given that you’ve come so far to see us.”

Hal stared at him for a moment longer before glancing over at Kyle, who was giggling with his cheek bulging around a licorice stick. Something softened in his face, and he tipped his glass wryly in Barry’s direction. “Alright, mister. You got yourself a deal.” 

* * *

* * *


	2. Negotiations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barry introduces his guests to life on the farm, and a deal is struck.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: sexual content, mentions of character death, terrible grammar, and Guy Gardner.

* * *

_Negotiations_

* * *

* * *

It was a hair under two hours from Central City to Keystone by cart, but luckily the day was mild and not so hot as to make the journey miserable. 

It was a damn good thing Barry had emptied the wagon bed too, because the lack of room forced Mr. Gardner and the children to sprawl out back there. Hal seemed perfectly at his ease keeping company with Barry on the driver’s bench, but it was hard to know what he was thinking. 

Kyle was less inscrutable. Now that he’d gotten past the worst of his shyness, the boy’s questions came in a veritable deluge. How big was the farmhouse? Did they have lots of neighbors with children? What were those plants along the road called? Did Barry grow sunflowers? Would they still have bacon for breakfast, or did country folk only eat vegetables? Why was their dappled mare named Lightning? Did they have a stable full of horses? Did masked bandits ever try to steal them? What kinds of crops did people grow?

Given the intent way that Guy and Hal listened to his answers, Barry reckoned that none of them had ever lived off the land. The Allen farm was nothing extraordinary and probably not up to their standards for creature comforts, however proud he was of it. 

He’d purchased the acreage from old Jonathan Kent a week after his eighteenth birthday, using every last scrap of his inheritance. All through the spring he’d devoured what few books on carpentry were available and sought advice from his neighbors on what sort of home might be suitable for raising a family with his new wife. He built the house himself, though it had scarcely been more than a tin-roofed shanty back then. 

That was how he met Jay and Joan, who owned the property that abutted his orchard. He’d known very little about homesteading when he bought the land, and it was entirely due to them that he and Iris hadn’t starved or frozen to death that first winter. 

“It’s mostly cattlemen around these parts,” Barry noted. “The soil’s poor, apart from land that’s fed by the natural springs or bordering the creek. Just so happens that my plot is near the springs, so I can keep an orchard.”

Hal looked interested at that. “What kind of fruit?”

“Apples, mostly, but there are wild blackberry patches here and there if you know where to look. Wally and I sell them by the bushel and can what’s left for preserves and ciders. Don’t we?”

“Mmhm! Uncle Barry’s apple butter is the _best_.” Wally stood up in the bed of the wagon and flopped over the back of the bench. “I’m hungry. Can we have bread with jam when we get home?”

“After supper, and not until your chores are done.” 

Kyle’s stomach growled loudly, and he looked a mite shamefaced. 

“See? He’s hungry too,” Wally pointed out. 

“Everyone will get fed,” Barry scolded. “Be patient. We’re almost there.” And they were. Lightning nimbly pulled the wagon over the hillock that led up toward the house. 

As they drew nearer and the barn came into view, Barry found himself watching keenly for Hal’s reaction. He and Wally had swept and mended and tidied to show the farm to its best advantage, but he felt strangely nervous. 

The house itself was in a cabin-style, of a smallish size and nothing lavish. Barry and Iris had added to it slowly over the years, making improvements here and there. A root cellar and a separate bedroom had been first, followed by a large shed and a vegetable garden for Iris. The barn had been the biggest undertaking, once the crops from the orchard turned enough profit to support a few animals; it had taken two months to raise, even with the Kents and the Garricks pitching in. Wally’s arrival had necessitated a pig pen and a proper paddock for Lightning to keep the child safe from wandering hooves. The chicken coop had sat empty for years, but it was full again now; he’d had purchased three fat hens and a tame rooster in the expectation that his new bride would want a ready supply of eggs. 

That rooster was the one who greeted them as Barry steered the wagon alongside the porch. He might have made a joke about Spot being the welcome committee, but Wally was already scrambling out of the cart, forcing Barry to yank Lightning to an abrupt stop. 

“Wally, how many dang times have I told you----!”

But Wally had hoisted up Spot -- who was proving himself uncommonly patient for a chicken -- so Kyle could see. “This here is a rooster,” he announced. “His name is Spot.” 

“Wallace, put the poor critter down.” Barry tucked his boot into the wheel-well and swung down onto the grass, only to dither near the bench. Should he offer to hand Hal down? Would Hal be offended? Would he be offended if Barry _didn’t_ offer? Before Barry could decide, Hal had already jumped from the bench and was helping Kyle clamber over the lip of the wagon bed. 

Wally led the charge, pointing out anything and everything and chattering a mile a minute. Barry left him to it long enough to put away the cart and fix Lightning up with a good brushing and some oat mash. By the time he left the barn, the group had made their way down the pig trail to the shed on the far south side of the yard. The sun was starting to lower, so it was about time to rustle up some supper.

“It’s empty now,” Wally was saying as Barry joined them, “but in the fall it’s where me and Uncle Barry keep all our apples. There are _so_ many. They fill up the whole shed.”

Kyle looked suitably awed. “This whole thing? How many apples is that?”

That had Wally stumped for a second. “Fifty,” he said authoritatively, and Barry saw Gardner and Hal exchange amused looks. 

“Wally,” Barry said, “you’ve done a mighty fine job showing our guests around. You boys head on back to the house now and wash up.” 

Wally took off like a shot, as he always did when a meal was on the horizon, and he pulled Kyle along with him. Hal followed, chuckling, and Barry started to, only to turn around again when he realized that Gardner wasn’t coming. In fact, the man had cracked open the shed door, peering inside with an evaluating glare. 

“Mr. Gardner, is there something I can----”

“It’s Guy. No point in puttin’ on airs with me.” Guy shut the door and kicked the side of the shed with the toe of his boot. “It don’t look like you got a lot of room in the main house. If this is already empty, I reckon we can bed down here.” 

“You’re visitors. I couldn’t possibly----”

“We’ll take blankets for the floor if you got any to spare,” Guy interrupted again, in a tone that brooked no argument. He dumped the hatbox and overstuffed satchel he’d been carrying against the shed door and then walked away, one hand already working at the buttons on his britches. “’Scuse me. Nature calls.” 

Barry willed himself not to react to the fact that one of his house guests was pissing in his yard, in full view of the Lord and all His saints. 

He’d only just trained Wally out of it. 

He turned around only to come face-to-face with Hal, who smiled at him until he noticed what was happening over Barry’s shoulder. 

“Oh, for the love of----You ain’t got the decency to use the outhouse like normal folk?” Hal paused and his eyes flicked over to Barry, suddenly uncertain. “There _is_ an outhouse?” 

Guy cackled.

“There is,” Barry said, keeping his calm. “It’s around the back of the barn.” 

“He’s got no blam-jam manners,” Hal told Barry apologetically. He looked irritated. “God knows his pa never could whip ‘em into his hide.” 

Barry cleared his throat, wondering what he’d gotten himself into. “It's about time to eat, I think. Who’s peckish?” 

  
  


***

Supper was a quick fry-up of beans, onions, cured ham, and plenty of greens, served with wedges of that morning’s bread slathered in butter and blackberry jam. Barry felt a pang of pity to see how hungrily his guests ate, hunched almost protectively over their tin plates. All three were so effusive in their praise of his cooking, which was hardly anything special, that it must have been a long time indeed since they’d had a square meal. He silently resolved to bring out some of the smoked trout from the cellar tomorrow, and the early-season squash and tomatoes would be due to be picked soon. He had enough stores to feed them up a little. 

Now it was Wally’s turn to ask questions. He wanted to know what city folk ate and how they managed to grow their gardens if they all lived together in big brick buildings without any soil. 

“Most of them don’t grow anything. We buy our food from the shops, from the green grocer’s or the butcher’s or the baker’s.” Hal sopped up some leftover gravy with the crust of his bread. “Now don’t let this get to your uncle’s head, Wally, but I reckon I never got anything _this_ good from a bakery.” 

Barry demurred but was a smidgeon flattered. Living as he did surrounded by farm wives who could create bread puddings and rolls and lattice pies that would make a grown man cry for joy, it wasn’t often he got such a compliment.

As they finished up the crumbs of their supper, Barry put on a kettle of coffee to warm, and the conversation turned again to the farm and the neighboring acreages. 

“The Garricks are nearest to us in the north, and the plot to the west used to belong to a friend of Jay’s,” Barry explained. “The land’s been for sale these five years at least, but Alan Scott’s old cabin is still there. It’s in bad disrepair now, of course -- probably what keeps it from being taken by squatters. To the east are the Kents, about three miles out. They’re good folks, and if you need to send any letters, you can drop them off to their son, Clark. He ferries the post from Central and Keystone all the way to Metropolis every other month since we don’t have an official postman.” 

“Hal’s pa was a post rider,” Kyle piped up. “Wasn’t he, Hal?”

“That’s right.”

“Must have been lonely work,” Barry mused. 

“It is, but there was nothin’ he loved better. Mama weren’t so keen, though. It’s a dangerous job, carryin’ all the cash wages and chits that go through the mail -- makes postmen a target for thieves. She always said he was gonna get himself killed.” Hal stretched out his arms in a sweeping gesture, winking at the boys. “Oh, the stories he would tell! He traveled all across California territory with nothing but the stars and the prowlin’ animals for company. It’s a wild, rugged place out there. The land’s so flat and empty in the desert that he said it was like walking on the sky.”

Wally’s eyes lit with curiosity. “Did he fight any bears, Mister Jordan? Sheriff Prince fought a bear.” 

“Sheriff Prince _chased_ off a bear,” Barry corrected with a laugh.

“Sorry, chickabiddy, but my daddy never tangled with no bears.” Hal poured himself another cup of coffee. “You said your pa was a schoolteacher, Barry?”

“He was a university man before he met my mother.” Barry gestured at the stack of shelves he’d built, stuffed to the brim with mismatched books and pamphlets. “There weren’t enough pupils to justify building a schoolhouse when I was a boy, but Pa tutored whoever was interested in an education.” 

Henry Allen had been a scholar of some repute in Boston, and he’d made sure his only son was a learned man, refusing to let Barry work any apprenticeships so that he could devote more time to his studies. Mathematics and fine literature and medicine and astronomy and chemistry -- he’d ordered books on anything and everything that caught Barry’s fancy, determined that Barry should go East and attend university too instead of wasting his talents on plow-pushing. Henry’s own beloved collection of tomes had been expansive; Barry hadn’t been able to bear parting with a single book. 

“May I look at your books?” Kyle asked.

“Of course you may,” Barry said, pleased. “Some of them there on that bottom shelf are stories I read when I was your age.” Wally, much to his uncle’s chagrin, had thus far shown great reluctance to study his primers, so it was heartening to see that at least _someone_ was interested in Barry’s old books.

“That’s a lot,” Kyle marveled, his neck craning as he took in how high the shelves went. 

Guy made a derisive noise. “Well, ain’t you just a high-falutin' duke, Allen.” 

“I like to read,” Barry said, not rising to the bait. 

“I like to read too." Kyle stood on his toes to read the titles. “Do you have any of Mister Alger’s books, Mister Allen? _Mark, the Match Boy_ is my favorite.” 

“Afraid I don’t. But I do have this.” Barry got up to pull one of the smaller volumes from the bottom shelf. “It's called _The Silver Skates_. It’s a story about a Dutch boy and his sister who compete in an ice-skating race, and it was my favorite. I think you’ll enjoy it.” 

By now, it was late enough that Wally was starting to doze off in his chair, so Barry put him to bed. Guy left soon after for the shed, yawning. Kyle was rubbing his eyes sleepily, his attention straying from his book, and it wasn’t long before he was ready to follow. 

Hal asked if there was somewhere they could wash up. Barry brought him and Kyle out around the back of the house, where the big tin tub sat on its crude platform. 

“This’ll do,” Hal said. “Where’s the water pump?”

“I’ve got a well. I mean to get a pump after the harvest.” The word around town was that Silas Stone had installed a fancy new pump of Beetle’s design that worked a treat, and Barry had been putting away a few extra dollars to get one for himself. 

“Oh.” Hal looked a bit at sea, but he squared his shoulders. “Alright. Where’s the well?” 

Barry directed him to the penned-in well near the barn and then went to chip off a generous hunk of soap and find a spare wash-rag and drying cloth. Hal must have located the well, because when Barry returned, the tub was already filled and Kyle was sitting in it, his black hair slicked down flat over his forehead. 

“I could have heated the water on the stove,” Barry said, passing the soap and washcloth over to him. 

“It’s okay,” Kyle said politely. “Thank you.” 

Barry went back inside to rinse the dishes. Hal must have returned with another bucket, because Barry heard a _splash_ and a yelp from Kyle. He didn’t mean to eavesdrop, but the cabin’s walls were only so thick, and the washtub was right outside the back window. 

“Quit your caterwauling,” he heard Hal say. “It’s plenty warm out tonight.”

“The water’s not!”

“Buck up. He bring you some soap?”

“Uh-huh. It smells funny.”

“You smell funny,” Hal retorted. “What’d you do, roll around in some old crone’s perfume? Where’d that come from anyhow?”

“The lady on the train who kept pinching my cheeks.” Kyle sounded disgruntled, and Barry bit back a smile. 

“Cripes, you gotta wash that grit out your hair too. Here, hold still.” There was a moment of silence, broken only by the water’s lapping and the sound of vigorous scrubbing, and then Kyle said, “Are we going to stay here, Hal?”

“I don’t know.”

“If you don’t want to marry Mister Allen, maybe we can have our own farm. Guy could build a house, and we could keep horses and chickens. I could sell my drawings in town to get money for us.” 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Hal said. “Now get a wiggle on. If you don’t bed down before Guy falls asleep, you know he’ll hog all the blankets. Go.” 

Barry finished the dishes and cracked open the window so they could dry faster. He could hear Hal splashing as he washed up too, and then Hal’s voice floated through the window. “What d’you want me to do with the water?”

Barry almost leaned out the window and realized just in time why that might be a bad idea. His face felt a little hot. “Look at the back of the tub,” he called. “There’s a cork there. Give it a pull, and the water will drain down that track into the yard.” 

“Clever,” Hal said appreciatively. There was a pause, a ‘pop’, and then a rush of gurgling water. A few minutes later, Hal returned to the kitchen, combing his wet hair back with his fingers. “You headin’ off to bed too?” he asked. 

“Not just yet,” Barry said. He topped off his mug and took the kettle off the range. “If any of you are hungry later tonight, you’re welcome to come and get something from the pantry.”

“No need,” Hal said, waving off Barry’s offer of more coffee. “You fed us like kings. I think Guy was near ready to get down on one knee and marry you himself.” 

Barry’s instinctive reaction must have shown on his face, because Hal tossed back his head with a gale of boisterous laughter. He had the most peculiar laugh -- throaty and loud and brassy, almost like a horse’s whinny -- but it was sort of charming. 

“It was real ace of you, lettin’ Kyle look at your books,” Hal said, once he’d wound himself down and caught his breath. “It's not easy for him to get his hands on ‘em.” 

“My pleasure. Lord knows Wally isn’t interested, and I can tell Kyle will be careful with them.” Barry went out on the front porch with his drink, as he usually did at the end of the day, and Hal followed him. The air was warm, the moon bone-white and bright despite the cloud cover that obscured most of the stars. 

Hal sat down on the porch step, stretching his long legs out in front of him. The plain brown boots he wore were badly in need of mending, the heels nearly worn down flat. “He will. He’s a good boy.”

“He is,” Barry agreed readily. He cupped his coffee mug in his hands and came to sit next to Hal. “It’s clear he’s got a level head on his shoulders. He’s been very patient with Wally.” 

“He’s used to havin’ little ones underfoot.” 

“Does he have brothers and sisters?” 

Hal shook his head. “He was in and out of foundling houses before Guy finally tracked him down. His head’s up in the clouds sometimes, but he knows how to behave himself.” 

“Is that how you met him, in an orphanage?” Barry ventured. The dates didn’t seem to line up, but it was hard to imagine how they might have fallen in together otherwise. 

“Not exactly. It’s a long yarn.” 

“We’ve got time.” 

“Maybe later,” Hal said affably, but something in his manner warned Barry to let the matter drop. “So, how long has Wally been with you? How’d you come by him?”

“He’s my brother-in-law’s boy.” 

Wally had been a fussy baby, with what the local doc had called the worst case of colic he’d ever seen, and even at two years old he hadn’t settled down. Barry and Iris hadn’t had a good night’s rest for what felt like months before he started finally sleeping more than an hour at a time. 

Wally’s father hadn’t been able to bear it. Iris had been spitting mad to find that her brother had taken to leaving the baby unattended in the cabin with no food and soiled clothes so he could go drinking. It had taken a dozen fierce quarrels and a fat purse of Barry’s money to finally convince Rudy to entrust Wally to their care. The last time Wally had seen his father was at Iris’s funeral, where he’d shown up drunk as a skunk, and then Rudy had disappeared to New York to seek his fortune. He hadn’t sent so much as a telegram in four years.

“We took him in when he was nearly two,” Barry said. “Wally’s mother left as soon as he was weaned, and his father wasn’t fit to take care of him.” 

Hal clucked his tongue. “He’s what, six?”

“Seven.” 

“Been with you most of his life, then.”

“He’s been a blessing. Iris and I didn’t have children of our own, so we were grateful to come by him.”

“So, her name was Iris. Pretty name. Your letter mentioned you were a widower." 

“Iris and I married when we were sixteen. She was. . . . “ He petered off, finding himself incapable of condensing everything that Iris had been into a paltry handful of words. She’d been everything to him. 

Hal looked like he was sorry he’d brought it up. They were silent for a spell, listening to the familiar evening symphony of crickets and rustling grass. 

“‘Suppose I’d better turn in,” Hal said finally. “Been a helluva day.” 

Barry tipped the dregs of his coffee into the dirt, feeling weary himself. It _had_ been a helluva day. “Of course. Goodnight, Hal.” 

“Night.” Hal got about a yard away before he stopped and turned back around. “My mama was right, you know,” he said. “About Pa. He was shot by bandits out in the middle of nowhere. They took his post bags and his horse and left him there in the desert. Didn’t find his body for months. Not that there was much of him to bury anyway.”

“That’s a damn shame,” Barry said quietly. 

Hal shrugged. “That’s life.” 

***

A fortnight flew by.

Things settled almost immediately into a new routine. Despite the occasional hiccup, the boys were getting on famously. Having another child there to help Wally with his chores made the work get done faster and left more time to play, and Wally had decided that he didn’t hate studying his letters so much if Kyle was doing it with him. Miracle of miracles, it even seemed that Kyle’s biddability was having the effect of curbing some of Wally’s hot-headed feistiness. 

Meanwhile, Barry was amazed to find his own workload lightened so considerably. True to their word, Hal and Guy were experienced laborers, and what they didn’t know they learned quick. It was obvious that they’d worked all sorts of odd jobs, with no rhyme or reason to their skills; Hal proved himself a knowledgeable gardener, a passable cook, and a very able stablehand, and Gardner surprised Barry one morning by milking Claudine, the farm’s nanny goat. 

The three of them worked like cogs in a machine, tending the animals, cleaning the stalls, watering the crops, cooking and cleaning, and weeding the vegetable patch. Within those two weeks, a number of extra long-neglected tasks had been tackled, with Hal helping him scour out the heavy trough with sand and Guy fixing some of the cracked roof tiles on the shed. They all gathered for breakfast, went their separate ways to work, met again for lunch and lessons, worked until supper, and then after supper was for card games, amusements, and idle talk.

Today he’d finished up his morning chores early, so Barry had time to make a heartier lunch than he usually did. Guy came in from mucking the stalls, and Hal declared that Guy’s long johns were starting to smell like death itself and Kyle’s britches were so stiff they could walk on their own, so he was going to wash the clothes after lunch whether they liked it or not. Barry gave Hal the washboard and showed him where he kept the lye, locked up with the kerosene and other poisonous things he wanted out of Wally’s reach. 

The food was still cooking, so Barry started the boys’ lessons. He had unearthed his old slates and some chalk so Kyle could practice his cursive; the boy’s spelling was abysmal, but he had a beautiful hand and quite the artistic streak. He read and wrote impressively well. Hal explained that Kyle had attended a Jesuit school before his mother died and continued to study with whatever the orphanage would provide. Guy and Hal hadn’t had the money for a tutor or to buy books for him beyond the occasional penny dreadful or charity box primer, so Kyle had fallen behind, but he was eager to learn. 

Cursive was too advanced for Wally yet, but he sat with Kyle by the stove and half-heartedly mimicked the older boy’s work before giving up and fetching his favorite picture book. Most of them had belonged to Barry, but the bumblebee book had been a special birthday gift from Sue and Ralph, and it was one of Wally’s most prized possessions. It was a simple story about a bumblebee who was searching for the perfect flower, illustrated with genuine watercolors. Barry knew it must have cost the Dibnys a small fortune. 

Guy was whittling a cat out of a spare piece of timber and Barry was tending the stove, so Wally brought the book to Hal, who sat at the table darning one of Kyle’s socks. 

“Will you read it to me?” he pleaded, and Hal ruffled his hair. 

“Well, chickabiddy, your uncle’s been braggin’ on how well you know your letters, so I was thinking I’d like to see what you can do. How ‘bout you sit up here and read it to me?” 

Happy to play to the gallery, Wally read the familiar story with only a few mistakes before demanding that Hal take his turn. Hal obligingly turned the pages, but he invented a new plot in which the bumblebee discovered that her stinger had been stolen and appealed to a police detective for his help in tracking down the thief. His nonsense had Wally and Kyle tittering, and Barry couldn’t help but laugh too when Hal dramatically revealed that the bumblebee had accidentally baked her stinger into a pie.

Even Guy was chuckling, his knife flicking rapidly as he whittled the cat’s curling tail. Wally leaned across the back of his chair, watching with fascination as the slivers of wood fell away and the animal took shape. 

“Where’d you learn to do that, Mister Gardner?” Wally asked. “Can you teach me?”

“Johnny taught him,” Kyle said, and then he froze. 

Barry tensed, reacting instinctively to the alarm on Hal’s face and the way he half-rose from the table. Guy stood up abruptly, his chair shrieking against the floorboards, and he went straight for the door, slamming it behind himself. 

Both Hal and Kyle relaxed, but Wally clambered up onto Barry’s lap, frightened. Distantly, Barry heard something crash. Hal got up without a word and slipped out the door. 

The whittled cat had been thrown to the ground, and the end of its tail was broken off. Kyle picked it up, placing the tail in his pocket. He seemed uneasy, glancing repeatedly at the door and then down at the cat. Good manners dictated that Barry ought to change the subject, but his curiosity got the better of him. “Who’s Johnny, Kyle?” 

“A friend. He took care of us, but he died.” 

“I’m sorry,” Barry murmured. “That must have been very hard.”

Kyle fiddled with the figurine, rolling it between his fingers. “Guy’s not mad.”

“He looked mad,” Wally said suspiciously. Barry ran a soothing hand down his back. 

“He wasn’t. Guy’s head doesn’t know how to be sad anymore, so it comes out as mad instead. Hal says so.” Kyle’s face had taken on a wretched cast, and Barry began to regret his prying. 

“It’s alright,” Barry said. “Let’s just finish our lunch.” 

He fed the boys and soothed them with a game of marbles. When he heard someone filling up the tub, he left them to play and went outside to find Hal washing clothes. He didn’t look disheveled or distressed as he lathered a shirt against the washboard, and Barry felt a slight tightness in his chest ease. 

“You want help?” Barry offered. 

“I got it,” Hal snapped. He scoured furiously for a minute and then sighed. “Sorry.” 

“It’s alright.” He sat down on the edge of the platform and watched Hal clean the shirt, his hands already reddened by the lye. 

“I reckon I owe you an explanation or a sob story, and lucky for me it’s both,” Hal said brusquely. “It were an accident.” 

“What was?” 

“Guy. The way he gets . . . “ Hal made an incomprehensible gesture, sudsy hands dripping onto his trousers. “He used to work in a sawmill, back before I knew him. A whole stack of timber came down on him one day and cracked him square on the head.”

Barry hissed a breath through his teeth.

“Nearly killed him. He was asleep for days. His mind don't work right ever since. He never means to make trouble. When he gets one of his spells, it’s like he’s not drivin' his own wagon anymore. Can’t control himself. You never know what the hell will set him off. Sometimes he don't even remember it afterwards. Kyle says he was polite as a nun before he got his brains rattled.” Hal smiled grimly. “The kid’s not a liar, but I’d have to see it to believe it.” 

“He’s lucky to be alive.” 

“Yeah. Not so sure he feels that way. He lost everything. His job. His sweetheart. He got a reputation for brawling and had to leave town to find someone willing to hire him on. He can’t hold down work for long,” Hal said tiredly. “It’s fine and dandy for a few weeks, a few months, and then somethin' sets him off and he pitches a fit, throws some punches, breaks things. . . . It’s why we got evicted from the Lantern House.” 

Kyle had said something about lanterns too. Barry made a questioning noise. “Lantern House?”

Hal rolled his eyes. “The Order of the Lanterns. A charitable society for rich lickfingers with more money than sense. They own poorhouses and foundlings' homes around Nashville. Johnny was a member -- that's how we met him. He took us in to live with him after the Order kicked Guy out for fighting.

“Me and John butted heads sometimes, but he was a good man, the real deal.” Hal fell silent as he wrung out the sodden shirt, his expression faraway. “Never met anyone like him. Taking in Kyle and Guy and me like he did, giving us a chance. . . . This Order of the Lantern stuff, all the lofty fiddle-faddle they talked about, about bringin' light into dark corners, like they gave a rip. . . John made me want to believe it.”

Hal extended his right hand. Barry had noticed the ring he wore, remarkable only in that Hal didn’t wear any other jewelry. It was a simple band of hammered metal inlaid with chips of dark green glass. “This was John’s,” he said. “He got it from Grandpappy Stewart and he wore it everywhere, except when he traveled. When he knew he’d be gone for a while, he’d leave it with me for safekeeping.

“John was a U.S. Marshal. He never told us the details, but he was on the trail of some train robbers 'round Asheville.” Hal blinked down at the soapy water. “Rode off to Carolina one morning and never came back.” 

“I’m sorry,” Barry said. 

“People disappear in the Alleghenies all the time. Guy and Kyle and me, we’ll never know what happened to him. Maybe the posse caught up with him. Maybe the mountain people decided they didn’t want a black man on their land. I wish I knew. But he would have come back to us if he were still alive, I know that much.”

Hal twisted the ring on his finger. It was maybe a size too big, slipping up to his knuckle. “I must’ve thought about pawning this a dozen times. He’s dead, it’s not like he’d care. Can’t make myself do it, no matter how bad things get.”

“You loved him. No shame in that.”

“Ain’t that many people I’ve loved in this world.” Hal rubbed his thumb against the green glass. “I suppose I did. Not that I ever told him.” 

“I reckon he knew.” 

“How’d you figure that?”

“He gave you that ring, didn’t he?” 

Hal looked down at his hand, but he didn’t agree or disagree. “I’m sorry if Guy gave Wally a scare.”

“He’s fine,” Barry said. “Is this something that happens a lot?”

“Not a lot. He’s gotten better at keeping a lid on it, believe it or not. A few years ago he wouldn’t’ve been able to get up and leave before he popped. He’s a horse’s ass, make no mistake, but he does try. He’d never want your boy to be afraid of him.” There was a stiff set to his jaw, like he was bracing himself for a mule's kick. “If you want us to go---”

“You missed lunch,” Barry interrupted. “Turned out pretty well, if I say so myself. Come fill your belly, and then you can take a plate out to Mister Gardner. The laundry’ll keep for a while.” 

Hal's gaze was more piercing than an iron poker. Barry shuffled his feet, wondering if he’d been too presumptuous. 

“You’re right,” Hal said slowly, after what seemed like an age. He wrung out the shirt and draped it over the platform to dry before getting to his feet. “It can wait.” 

***

At the end of the next week, Barry resolved that it was due time to fix a section of rotted fence. The morning dawned with a sticky, baking sort of heat, but he already had the lumber and tools ready to go, so he might as well get it done. 

Complaining that the air was hotter than a brothel on nickel night, Guy had volunteered himself to be in charge of cooking lunch and watching the boys back at the house instead. Hal had agreed to help, though, and they’d taken the wagon out into the orchard with their supplies, some bread and salt beef, and a big jug of water. 

Hal admired the apple trees, asking when they would fruit and what sort of care they needed. It turned out that he’d worked for a short while in a wealthy man’s orangery. As tight-lipped as he was about some things, Hal liked to talk, especially about himself, and Barry listened curiously while they chopped up the bad fencing and attached the new posts and rails.

“‘Course, that was before I left Louisville,” Hal was saying, grunting as he heaved up a beam and held it with his thigh to nail it in place. His forearms strained under the weight. As the hot sun had hit its highest point, he’d stripped down to his trousers and a pair of heavy gloves, and Barry was endeavoring not to let his eyes wander. “I didn’t much like having to go then.” 

“Why’s that?” 

Hal grinned wolfishly, teeth flashing. “Old Ferris had a daughter. Carol. Prettiest girl you ever seen, and she was smart as the dickens and had a hell of a temper. I was awful sweet on her.”

“But was she sweet on you?” Barry asked knowingly. 

Hal’s smile shifted, edging on rueful. “You know, she actually was. But she never would have had me. Old Ferris must’ve owned a dozen different shipyards, and she stood to inherit. She couldn’t afford to make a bad match.” He pushed against the new rail, testing, and then made a satisfied sound. “It’s just as well I left.” 

It seemed to Barry that leaving was something Hal did a lot. Guy had started making noise about riding back into town to see about work and cheap lodging, and Hal hadn’t disagreed. Barry had spent several nights pondering it all, feeling like time was running short without a clear idea of what to do. 

He liked Hal and found his company enjoyable. Gardner’s company was less so, but there was no denying that Wally was growing attached to Kyle, and the three of them leaving would probably hurt him. Barry had known in his heart that Wally needed more companionship, but he hadn’t realized how much he himself had missed having daily adult conversations and able helpmates. He’d hadn’t bet on how much more activity there would be, how much more fuss and excitement. More _life_. If Hal and the others decided to go, the silence they’d leave behind might be hard to reckon with. 

The heat was starting to get nigh unbearable, so Barry suggested they sit under a nearby tree to cool off and have some water. Hal accepted the water, but he wanted to finish up the fencing; he convinced Barry to rest while he worked, which Barry did grudgingly, and only because he felt embarrassingly lightheaded. 

“Not keen on the heat, are you?” Hal said, not unkindly. 

“Never have been,” Barry admitted. The summer after he and Iris built the farm had been dreadful humid, and he’d actually fainted while the two of them were out in the fields. Poor Iris had been forced to haul his limp body up onto Lightning herself to get them home. For years afterward she’d teased him about his ‘delicate constitution’. 

“I like the warmth,” Hal said. He lifted his face up, squinting at the cottony clouds hanging low overhead. “It’s beautiful here. Not many places you can see the sky like this.”

It was that, of all things, that made Barry’s mind up for him. “We should marry.” 

Hal’s eyes snapped toward him, half-distracted; the hammer he was gripping slipped from his fingers, narrowly missing his feet. “Shit!”

“Not quite the response I was hoping for.”

Hal looked like he didn’t know what to say, like he wasn’t sure if Barry was having fun at his expense or not. 

“If you still want to, that is,” Barry added. “I understand if you’ve changed your mind.” 

Hal stripped off his gloves silently and propped the hammer against the fence. He sighed, wiping the sweat off his forehead, and then walked over to sit with Barry under the tree. He didn’t speak for a while, and Barry prepared himself for the blunt rejection that Hal was probably gathering the words for. 

“What d'you get out of this?” Hal asked. 

Barry glanced over at him, unsure. “I don’t take your meaning.”

“What do you get out of this?” Hal repeated, and that was definitely suspicion in his voice. “The way it seems to me, I get a safe place for Kyle, a roof over our heads and plenty to eat. What the hell do you get? It don’t add up. I got no property, no rich relatives. I’m not a teacher. I can’t give you children.” 

Once upon a time, Barry had wanted to have a whole passel of children, enough to overfill the farmhouse. “I have Wally. And Kyle too now, I suppose. I’ve got land already, and I don’t need more money than what I have. But you’ve seen how isolated the house is. Wally needs someone his own age, and I can see you’re good with children. He and Kyle seem to get on fine. You and Guy are hard workers, and you’d be an asset to the farm.” 

“That’s all mighty noble of you,” Hal said tersely, unimpressed. “But what do _you_ get?”

Barry took a moment to consider it seriously. He could have told Hal how miserable it was to crawl into an empty bed after having known what it was to share it with someone he loved. He could have told him how his heartache over Iris had consumed him, left him feeling like half of himself had died with her. He could have told him how Wally had saved him from his grief, but over the long years he’d had to learn how to live with never being kissed or held at night, shouldering all of the burdens of life alone. That was too honest by half, and too painful. But there was something Barry could offer, and if it wasn’t enough for Hal, it was better that they parted ways now. “I’d like to have a partner again.”

His sincerity must have gotten through, because Hal’s hard stare visibly softened. He had such fine brown eyes, and warmth suited them much better. 

“Alright, Barry Allen,” he said. “No point in beating the devil around the stump. If you’re sure you want to throw your lot in with me, I’m in.” He held out his hand, and they shook on it solemnly. 

***

Barry’s second wedding day dawned cloudy and cool. He and Hal had decided not to wait for the banns to be read, so they would be married by the sheriff, who could file the marriage license herself as Justice of the Peace. 

They left as soon as the sun rose in order to make the appointment in Central City on time, before the boys were even awake. Hal had declined any interest in having onlookers beyond the county clerk who would serve as their witness, and they would come right home to help finish up the day’s chores as soon as the deed was done. 

It was about as far from Barry’s first wedding as it was possible to be. He and Iris had married at dusk in the church, surrounded by their friends and family, and Ralph had hired musicians so they could dance until their feet ached. It had been a wonderful night, the best of Barry’s life, and he would always remember how Iris had looked dancing barefoot in the grass, her hair braided with flowers and her cheeks flushed with laughter and rum punch.

There would be no flowers or dancing today.

He and Hal rode double on Lightning to save themselves time hitching up the wagon -- Barry being Barry, he’d caused a delay leaving, and when they arrived in Central City, they were already an hour late. 

They tethered Lightning in front of Gold’s Saloon and walked down to the Assay Office, where Sheriff Prince mediated disputes and conducted business when she wasn’t out making her rounds. The doors were locked at this hour, so Barry rang the bell, and they waited. 

Barry smoothed down the front of his best coat, feeling jittery. If Hal was anxious too, he concealed it well. 

“I’m sorry I don’t have a ring for you.” Barry had thought to have Iris’s plain gold wedding band resized, but the idea had been too much to bear, however practical. He wouldn’t have ready cash on hand for any large purchases until after the harvest, and hopefully Hal would be satisfied with something simple. He didn’t seem the type for jewelry anyway, apart from his green-glass ring. 

“Don’t bother,” Hal said. “It’s alright.”

“You don’t want one?” Barry’s own wedding ring was still stored in his bureau, wrapped in butcher’s paper. He’d intended to polish it up and start wearing it again; it seemed like the respectful thing to do, and he’d missed having its comforting weight on his hand. 

“Seems a waste of money to me.” He shot a half-smile over at Barry. “I’d rather have that water pump, truth be told.” 

The glass-paneled door of the Assay Office swung open. Sheriff Prince appeared in its threshold. She was a striking woman, tall and broad and muscled, with a thick mane of long black hair that she wore loose around her shoulders. Her five-pointed badge gleamed golden on her breast, her customary riding leathers and bright scarlet waistcoat impeccably brushed. 

“Come in, gentlemen,” she said warmly, in her low, accented voice. Sheriff Prince was something of a cipher. No one knew where she came from, or what had brought her to Central City, or even how old she was, but she was such a regal soul -- and so imposing -- that no one had really dared to ask. “If you'd come with me, please.” 

Barry apologized profusely for their tardiness. 

“It's no trouble, Barry. How is young Wally?” Sheriff Prince inquired as they walked down the short hallway. 

“Lively as ever,” Barry said. 

Wally had taken the news of the marriage in his stride -- after all, Barry had sat him down for a talk before he’d even signed up with the agency -- and seemed more concerned with whether this meant he would have to give up some of his toys to Kyle, now that they were to be brothers. Wally’s disinterest hurt some, because it was yet another sign that he didn’t really remember Iris and had no strong feelings about her being replaced. Not that Barry _wanted_ Wally to resent Hal, but it was painful to think that Wally didn’t keep the memory of the aunt who’d loved him so dearly. 

“You're both coming to this marriage willingly?” Sheriff Prince asked them, her blue eyes intent and searching as she looked from one face to the other. 

Barry and Hal assented. She nodded, satisfied, and unlatched the door to her personal office, gesturing for them to follow her inside. 

But Barry paused. There was something yet that needed to be addressed. He could have claimed it had slipped his mind entirely, but the fact was, he hadn’t wanted to tell Hal. If he told him, Hal might leave. But for all his faults, Barry Allen wasn’t a liar, and he wasn’t going to marry someone without laying out all his cards. 

He caught Hal’s elbow before he went inside. “Wait. I need to tell you something.”

Hal’s gaze flicked toward Sheriff Prince. “Now?”

“Yes, now. It may not matter to you one way or another, but you have the right to know before you marry me.” 

“What, you got a bounty on your head? Let me guess: you joined a posse of bank robbers and shot a man through the heart over a game of Old Maid.”

Barry opened his mouth to object, only to see a glint of mischief in Hal’s eyes. “I’m serious. It’s tinker’s news, but people here have long memories for scandals. I want you to hear it from me first.”

“Alright,” Hal said, sobering up. “Tell me straight.” 

“The Allen name has a reputation in Central City. It’s why I left.” It was hard to speak of it, the shame as fresh as it had been fifteen years ago, but Hal deserved to know. “My father was hanged for murder.” 

Hal’s eyebrows rose. 

“My mother,” Barry said roughly, in answer to the unasked question. “But he didn’t do it, Hal. I don’t know who did, but it wasn’t him.”

“Gentlemen,” Sheriff Prince said discreetly.

“We’re comin’, ma’am,” Hal called. He looked back at Barry. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Barry said, steeling himself. “I understand if you----”

“I’m ready if you are,” Hal interrupted. “Let’s not piddle away the lady’s time.” 

And that was that. The sheriff produced a license, asked questions, confirmed the dates, read a short declaration, and then they were married. 

“My congratulations,” Sheriff Prince said, squeezing Barry’s hand in her too-strong grip as Hal slowly signed his name under the watchful eye of the clerk. “I wish you and Hal great health and happiness. And tell Wally hello.” 

With that, she left to attend to her other duties, and Barry and his husband went home. 

***

Everyone retired early that night. Kyle had thoughtfully arranged a special supper with Guy and Wally’s help, and after they ate, the boys went directly to the shed, where Wally would sleep tonight as well to give the newlyweds some privacy. 

Barry returned from getting them settled to find Guy waiting for him on the front porch. He slapped a bottle into Barry’s hand; there was no label on the brown glass, but it was filled with a dark liquid. 

“A wedding present,” he said gruffly. “I ain’t got champagne, but this here is moonshine, or some kind of local rotgut. Won it off some flannel-mouthed yak at Gold’s place.”

“Thank you,” Barry said, fully intending to pour it into the hedge at the first opportunity. Lord knew what it actually was. He wasn’t keen on poisoning himself and his husband on their wedding night. 

“Oh, and one more thing, Allen. You smack Hal around, and I’ll put your head through a wall.”

“I don’t have a notion to,” Barry said coldly, and he knew he probably sounded as offended as he felt. “Nor will I ever.”

“Yeah, alright, keep your britches on.” Guy spat a wad of tar-colored chew onto the porch. “Or don’t, I guess. Jordan won’t. You two lovebirds have fun.” With a lazy salute and no apology, he swaggered off to the shed. 

Barry took a calming breath. He emptied the pungent liquor into the grass and went inside. The dishes had been put away and the fire was tamped down to embers, but Hal was nowhere to be seen. Barry found him in the bedroom, looking out the window at the stars. 

“Ready for bed?” Barry asked. 

Hal nodded. 

With the fire low, they’d need another blanket. Barry opened his dresser to find his star quilt and spread it out across the bed. The nights were chilly enough lately that he’d have to unpack the flannels. “It’s a matter of practicality, you sleeping here with me. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t expect anything from you. You’re not obliged.” 

Hal looked at him like he’d said the moon was made of cheese. “I married you. Pretty sure I’m obliged.” 

“You’re really not,” Barry assured him. While he certainly hoped that their marriage wouldn’t stay chaste forever, there was plenty of time for them learn more about each other first. He’d managed well on his own for years, and the thought of a reluctant partner had no appeal for him. He hadn’t taken anyone to bed since Iris either, and he wasn’t sure he was ready. 

“Oh.” He sounded . . . disappointed?

“Did -- did you want to?” Barry asked. 

“Sure,” Hal said easily. “You’re handsome, and I like you well enough.” 

“I should hope so, considering,” Barry said awkwardly. Good Lord, Hal was blunt. 

The look in Hal’s eyes became faintly pitying. “It’s fine if you don’t want to.”

“I do,” Barry said shortly, before he could think better of it. He was a married man twice over, a man of property and education, and seven years Hal’s senior besides. He wasn’t about to let Hal think he was intimidated by something as natural as sex. 

“You sure?”

“I just said I was. Let me get some light first so we’re not stumbling around in the dark. Make, uh, make yourself comfortable.” 

Barry went to fetch a lamp, glad of the brief reprieve to gather his thoughts. He hadn’t expected Hal to want to make love so soon, and he felt torn between the stirrings of lust and trepidation. 

Iris had been his first lover -- his only lover, truth be told, as his schoolboy romance with the preacher’s son hardly counted for more than a bit of fumbling behind the church. Iris’s pleasure had been important to Barry, and he knew the mechanics of how to pleasure himself, so surely he could satisfy Hal without wounding his own pride. Still, it had been so long for him, and they hadn’t even _kissed_. . . .

He returned to the bedroom with a lit lamp to find Hal sitting on the bed, naked. 

Hal was built lean, with the muscle of an active young man packed in his shoulders and arms. Wisps of dark hair curled across his chest and belly, thickening at the cradle of his thighs where the soft length of his cock lay. He didn’t seem embarrassed by his nudity, watching Barry as intently as he was being watched.

Barry couldn’t tear his gaze away. The dim light of the lamp picked out the honeyed tones in Hal’s skin and caught the shine of his dark eyes. He really was beautiful to look at. 

Hal patted the straw ticking, beckoning him over. As if in a trance, Barry obeyed, barely remembering to put the lamp down. 

As soon as Barry was in reach, Hal’s hands slipped to his shirt buttons, undoing them with brisk efficiency. His fingers crept inside, brushing against Barry’s chest hair before retreating. The tips of his fingers were cool, and Barry spared a moment to think that he ought to bank up the fire before Hal’s hands dipped lower, cupping him through his britches with a suddenness that had him shying away. 

Hal stopped, peeping up at Barry with an edge of wariness, like he wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong. Feeling badly for his overreaction, Barry undid his flies himself, pushing off his clothes as he crawled into the bed and pulled the blankets over them. 

Hal was wonderfully warm all over, and the feel of his skin had every one of Barry’s nerves taking notice. They kissed quietly, bumping elbows and knocking knees as they settled into each other, and then Hal’s fingers were curling around him again, caressing. 

It felt good, and the weight of Hal’s body above him was exciting, but after a few minutes, the mortification began to set in. Hal was already hard against his hip, but Barry. . . wasn’t. . . despite the slick, steady pressure of Hal’s hand. 

Hal was still stroking, peppering kisses against his chest, but he’d obviously noticed that Barry wasn’t responding. There was a crinkle between his brows, a frown on the half of his face that was visible in the lamplight. 

Miserably, Barry reached down to still his hand. 

“What is it?” Hal asked, sounding put out. “Am I doin’ something wrong? I don’t have the pox, I swear.”

“What? No, I didn’t--- Hal, that’s not it.” Barry broke off to cover his eyes, his face aflame. “It’s nothing you’ve done. It feels wonderful. It’s just. . . . It’s been a very long time, is all.” 

“ _Oh_. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” Hal rolled off him, tugging on Barry’s shoulder to turn him. “C'mere.”

Barry let himself be pulled over on top of Hal, strong thighs curling up to bracket his hips. Hal’s toes brushed against his calves. His fingers carded through Barry’s hair, trailing down his spine to rest in the small of his back, where they waited expectantly.

Barry closed his eyes, frustrated. He was thinking himself to death. Hal was his husband now, and Hal was warm and willing, and it had been ages since Barry had been touched like this, ages since _he’d_ touched someone like this. He’d been lucky with Iris, but marriage wasn’t always like that, and this was what he had now. Love would come later, once they’d gotten to know each other better.

“I’m sorry.” 

“‘S’alright,” Hal said. “We got all night, don’t we?”

They did, and Barry was wasting it. He pushed away those fretful thoughts and sought out Hal’s mouth, sinking down his elbows to press closer to him. 

He was making love to a stranger. He didn’t know where to touch, where to kiss, or how Hal liked to be held. All he could now was discover what made his bedmate lean up eagerly, what made his nose wrinkle, what made his breath catch heavy in his throat. 

“What would. . . . what do you want?” Barry asked, shivering as Hal’s teeth tugged on his earlobe. 

Hal let go of his ear to swipe his tongue across the line of Barry’s jaw. “Anything,” he sighed, his hands moving faster where they were clasped around the both of them. “Whatever you want.” 

That didn’t clarify anything. Barry struggled to think past the fog of lust, looking for a delicate way to rephrase, but it seemed that Hal had understood after all, because then he said, “I said anything and I mean anything. I can suck you. You can fuck me. I can fuck you, if that’s more to your liking.” 

A flush of burning heat crawled up Barry’s neck, and for a moment he couldn’t look Hal in the face. The thought of Hal’s lips around him had him flustered with arousal. He imagined how it might feel to put his mouth on Hal, to taste him, or to have Hal in the most intimate way; he wondered, with an uneasy thrill, how it might feel to have Hal inside _him_. His body clamored for everything all at once. It was overwhelming.

Hal paused. He let go of them, his hands returning to Barry’s back. “How about like this?” he murmured, and he twisted his hips, coaxing. “Kiss me.”

Barry did, and it was easier after that. Hal’s body responded to his, arched into his hands, guided him with subtle touches. Pleasure came easy too, flashes of hunger at the clench of Hal’s fingers, the heat of his mouth, and the heavy musk of their sweat. He found himself overwhelmed again, this time by sensation. He reached completion first, but Hal wasn’t far behind, moaning loudly into Barry’s neck. 

Boneless and basking in a drowsy stupor, Barry lay there until he felt Hal begin to squirm under him with his palms pushing against Barry’s sides. Apologizing for his thoughtlessness -- Hal was bigger and taller than him, but it couldn’t be comfortable to have a grown man sprawled atop you -- Barry rolled off to the side. 

Hal stretched, his skin gleaming a burnished gold. His dark hair was tousled against the pillow, and Barry was struck again by how comely he was. 

“Thank you,” he said. 

Hal stared at him blankly, and Barry was just starting to feel foolish when he chuckled and husked, “You’re welcome.”

Barry rested his face against the damp curve of Hal’s shoulder, the corded muscle stiffening under his cheek. Idly, his head still buzzing with sated pleasure, he reached out to thumb an affectionate touch against one of Hal’s dimples, only for the man to flinch roughly away. 

There was an uncomfortable silence. Hal cleared his throat, looking everywhere except Barry’s face, and then he tugged the blankets up around his waist and rolled over. “‘Night,” he said, and his naked back was one long, rigid line. 

Feeling suddenly, painfully awake, Barry lay there until Hal’s breathing slowed and deepened. Eventually, he slipped from the bed without waking Hal. He silently washed the sweat and sticky spend away, re-dressed in a pair of long johns, fixed himself a cup of licorice tea, and sat by the stove to think for a while before he finally went back to bed. 

Barry listened to his new husband’s quiet snores, and sleep was a long time coming. 

* * *

* * *

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Mark, the Match Boy" by Horatio Alger (1869) was one of a series of children’s dime novels in which a poor boy pulls himself up by his bootstraps to gain fame and fortune. Good ol’ American capitalist propaganda. "Hans Brinker, or The Silver Skates" was written by Mary Dodge in 1865.


	3. Dog Days of Summer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> News of Barry Allen's slapdash wedding spreads.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: crude language, classism, period-typical attitudes, references to past minor character death, and innuendo.

* * *

_Dog Days of Summer_

* * *

* * *

On a fine summer’s morning, almost a fortnight to the day after the wedding, Barry took Hal to meet the Garricks. 

Kyle and Wally came along too, and their lively cloud-watching competition was a welcome distraction. Barry could admit to himself that he was nervous about this get-together, and it had been a real relief that Guy hadn’t been interested in accompanying them. He could only imagine what Joan would think of the man. He was anxious enough already about what they would think of Hal. 

Jay and Joan hadn’t approved of him sending for a bride. It had been rather unexpected, because they’d always worried for him and Wally being so alone on the farm and had, over the years, urged Barry not to feel guilty if he found himself ready to remarry. He’d casually told them of his decision to roll the dice with the agency and been surprised by their looks of consternation. It had taken some pressing, but eventually Joan admitted that she didn’t think it was wise. 

“A risky venture like that?” she’d objected. “You have to realize, the sort of woman who would agree to be shipped away from her family to a stranger, she’d have to be desperate or left with no other prospects. She might’ve gotten herself in a pickle with another man, or she might be after money. You won’t know her character, not truly, ‘til it’s too late. You’ve such a kind heart, Barry. I’d hate awfully to see someone take advantage of you.” 

Jay had added his two cents: “And what does Wally think of your scheme? What if he don’t like who’s sent to you?” 

Knowing that they were only looking after his welfare, Barry had tried his best not to be defensive. It wasn’t as though they weren’t sensible concerns, but the long and short of it was, he’d made up his mind to try, and he was committed to seeing his experiment through. 

“That’s practical,” Jay conceded, once Barry had laid out his cards. “But is it what you _want?_ ” 

Barry hadn’t understood. Joan had reached out across the table and clasped one of Jay’s work-weathered hands in hers, their fingers knotting together. They’d been married for nearly forty years. “What Jay’s tryin’ to say is, can you be happy with practical? You won’t be marrying for love, sweetheart.”

“I did marry for love,” Barry had said. “I don’t expect I ever will again. That sort of love comes once in a blue moon. It’s alright.” 

Joan had looked so sad that he’d had to reach out and hold her other hand. “It’s alright,” he’d repeated. “Of course I want us to come to care for each other, but I don’t expect a sweeping romance. What I’m looking for now is a helpmate. A companion. Someone who can get on with Wally, and maybe give him some brothers or sisters, if she’s amenable. That’s all I’m after.” 

The Garricks hadn’t raised any other objections, seeing that he was determined, but Barry was sure that they would be fretting now that the deed was done. It was best to bring Hal to meet them as soon as he was able. Word traveled fast in town, and who knew what the rumor mill had to say about Barry Allen’s slapdash wedding. 

If Hal was nervous about meeting the Garricks, he didn’t look it; Barry was coming to learn that he never did. His posture was easy and relaxed as he played along with the boys in the wagon bed, insisting that there was a nigh-perfect buffalo head in that cloud over there. Didn’t they see the horns? Kyle thought it looked like the back-end of a pig, which had all three of them laughing. Barry eyed the long golden stretch of Hal’s throat and felt a bit hot around his ears, hastily looking back at the road. 

Now that he was getting good square meals every day, Hal brimmed with energy, working tirelessly all day and showing few signs of slowing down when they retired for the night. Barry hadn’t accounted for how much Hal’s vim and vigor would extend to their marriage bed, and how he might find himself struggling a little to keep up. 

Hal was a healthy young man with fierce appetites, and he wasn’t shy about it. This very morning, he had woken Barry at dawn by slithering coyly under the blanket; Barry had had to hold a pillow over his own face to muffle his groans so as not to wake Wally. The velvety heat of Hal’s mouth left him winded and reeling. He’d been clumsy when he’d tried to return the favor afterwards. 

Hal never seemed to mind Barry’s fumbling. He’d already proven himself to have an impulsive, thoughtless tongue at times, but as a lover he was obliging and patient and even a little courtly, in his own coarse way. Barry hadn’t said as much, but Hal had to have figured that he was out of his depth. It wasn’t a flattering notion. 

“D’you think there’ll be cookies, Uncle Barry?” Wally asked suddenly, startling Barry from his unseemly thoughts. 

Barry cleared his throat. “Might be.” There definitely would be. Joan was an accomplished baker and always had a fresh batch of something sweet at hand when she knew Wally was visiting. There would likely be finger sandwiches as well, and probably some fresh fruit if it was available. Mrs. Garrick’s teas were proper, old-fashioned affairs with a generous spread served on her fine china, regardless of whether her guests were ace-high or not.

Hal patted the flat plane of his belly. “Well, if there are, promise to save one for me.”

“Me too!” Kyle exclaimed.

“And me,” Barry teased.

Wally declared stoutly that he wouldn’t, and a playful argument carried them the rest of the way to the Garricks’ farm. 

With a large front paddock, a row of stables, and acres of fenced pasture for the Garricks’ stock to roam, it was an expansive property. Jay was the best horse breeder within a hundred miles, raising up strong work-horses and sleek, fast thoroughbreds for endurance and speed. More than that, his horses were treated like royalty, so they had a reputation for being mild-tempered and easy to handle even for novice riders. That reputation sustained a very comfortable living for him and Joan. 

Hal whistled, visibly impressed, as Barry pulled the wagon to a stop near the sprawling two-story farmhouse. “Fancy.” 

The porch door opened as the Garricks came out to welcome them. The next few minutes were a gay cacophony of introductions and congratulations and shaking hands and cheek kisses courtesy of Joan, and then they were all herded to the dining room. Joan had outdone herself, the table laid with a blue-patterned tea set and plates of dainty cucumber sandwiches, a variety of cheeses, hothouse tomatoes, grapes, and Wally’s favorite oatmeal cookies. 

They sat down to eat, but Wally ducked under the table and heaved himself up to sit proprietarily on Jay’s lap. Barry tried to move him back to his own chair, but Jay waved him off, chuckling, and slipped Wally the largest cookie on the plate. 

Joan fetched the teapot while they passed the plates around and tucked in. 

“Wally, your napkin,” Barry reminded him, and Wally grudgingly unfolded the starched cloth and laid it across his knees. From the corner of his eye, he saw Hal and Kyle hastily following suit. 

Next, Joan brought out a decorative platter with a half-dozen tins of loose tea, each hand-labelled with their contents in her neat cursive. “Here, Hal, choose whatever you’d like. I’ve got everything from herbals to a lovely Orange Pekoe that Sue Dibny ordered in special from London.” 

“I’m an Arbuckle’s man myself,” Hal said, “but I do like pekoe. It’s been a long while since I’ve been able to have it.” 

Joan looked pleased. “Well, then, help yourself, my dear,” she said, and she offered him the platter. 

If Barry hadn’t been watching him already, he might not have noticed Hal’s split-second of hesitation, the flicker of panic that came and went on his expressive face. Kyle leaned forward to take the tin of Orange Pekoe, handing it over to Hal. “I’d like to try this too, please. It sounds very good, Missus Garrick. I’ve never been to a proper tea party before!” 

Joan beamed at him. “My pleasure, honey. Here, have another cookie. And take as many sandwiches as you like. I declare, you’re skinny as a rail.” 

Barry fixed Wally a cup of camomile that was more milk and sugar than tea and chose a strong black Assam for himself. Jay asked how Lightning was getting along, and whether she needed re-shoeing, and then the conversation drifted into a genteel interrogation. 

Hal was at his most disarming, making the Garricks laugh as he deflected and dodged their questions, cajoling them to talk about themselves without seeming to be steering the discussion at all. Barry sat there listening, feeling increasingly perturbed. He hadn’t realized how good Hal was at this verbal sleight-of-hand until he saw it directed at someone else, someone not _himself_. 

Hal had been asking about their neighbors when Joan perked up abruptly in her chair, turning to Barry. “Oh! I meant to tell you, dear, I ran into Sheriff Prince yesterday at the Dibnys’ store. It seems Barbara Ann is coming home next Sunday.” 

“That is good news,” Barry said, with some surprise. He hadn’t realized her sentence was up already. 

Jay must have seen the curious look on Hal’s face, because he explained, “Miss Minerva was a neighbor and our sheriff’s sweetheart.” He paused, leaning over to hold the tea strainer for Joan as she freshened up her cup. “Y’see, there was an incident, oh, ‘bout a year ago, and she got herself into a spot of trouble. It near to broke poor Diana’s heart, but she upheld the law, and Barbara Ann was sent to Fallville Penitentiary. She’s reformed herself now, of course.”

“She made a mistake and paid her debt for it. I only hope folks will accept that,” Joan added. “People can be so dreadfully unkind about such things.” 

Joan would know. Her mother, Barry knew, had been a successful actress, unmarried, who had raised three children alone and out of wedlock. Joan was utterly unapologetic if anyone dared to remark upon it to her face, but she’d borne her share of gossip about her family. Independent women, especially those who pursued an education as Joan and her sisters had, hadn’t been kindly regarded back in those days. She’d struggled to find work as a broker in the horse market, where she’d met and fallen in love with Jay. Their farm was as much a business partnership as a labor of love; Jay trained the horses and Joan kept all the books and managed the money.

“That’s truer than it should be, Joan,” Barry commented ruefully, thinking of the gleeful rumors that had sprung up around town after Nora Allen’s murder. News rags as far away as Metropolis had gotten wind of his father’s trial, and what details they didn’t know they’d fabricated, each exposé crueler and more sensationalized than the last. 

“Amen,” Joan said. “As Ben Franklin says, ‘Glass, china, and reputation are easily cracked and never well-mended.’”

Hal held out his cup for a refill too. “Who’s that? Another neighbor?” 

Barry laughed loudly, only to bite his tongue when he realized from the look on Hal’s face that it hadn’t been a joke. A ruddy red flush began to crawl up those tanned cheeks.

“Eh, I don’t much care what any dead fella has to say on the subject,” Jay said, cutting through the awkwardness in his usual avuncular way. “‘Atwixt you and me, Hal, Joanie’s more of the cultured type. Give me a shovel or a pitchfork and a good, fast horse to ride over a book any day! Are you much of a rider, Hal?” 

Hal replied that he was. The conversation carried on, but Hal was noticeably quieter, drinking his tea and listening instead of joining in, and Barry felt wretched for having embarrassed him. He hadn’t meant to. It was almost a relief when Jay invited Hal and the boys out to the stables to take a gander at their newborn foals. 

“Jay likes him,” Joan remarked as soon as they were alone. “I can tell.” 

“Well, Hal likes horses, and Jay likes anyone who likes horses,” Barry said, only half-listening, his thoughts elsewhere. He startled when he felt Joan’s calloused hand against his cheek. 

“It’s nothing an apology won’t fix,” she said briskly. She got up to clear away the dishes and tea fixings, and Barry helped her, washing the china while she dried. 

“What do you reckon?” Barry asked finally, unable to wait any longer. The Garricks had been so good to him and Iris and Wally over the years, and he knew they saw him as something of a surrogate son since they’d never had children of their own. Their opinions were important to him. 

“Kyle’s a sweet boy, and so well-mannered! I think he’ll be an influence on Wally, and it looks to me like they get on swell. I always thought having a brother or sister would be good for him.”

“And Hal?” 

Joan gave him a knowing look. “As I said, Jay likes him. I think he’s a bit of a sweet-talker, is what I think. I’ll have to get to know him better. But what’s important is how you’re getting along. As long as you’re content, darlin’, that’s all that matters.” Peering out the kitchen window, where the others were just walking back from the stables, she paused, and her sudden smile had more than an edge of pertness to it. “My, my, he _is_ devilish handsome, though. Those eyes!” A soapy hand reached back to pinch Barry’s chin fiercely. “And not a word of that to Jay, you hear?” 

***

On the first Sunday of the month, Barry rose well before dawn to make breakfast and wake everyone for church. He’d woken up alone. When he wandered out of the bedroom, he discovered his husband sitting at the kitchen table, the gutted body of a Black Forest cuckoo clock laid out before him. 

Barry’s father had brought the clock with him from Boston. It was a pretty thing, imported all the way from Germany, but it had met its untimely demise when Wally had decided to go climbing on the mantelpiece. A week ago, Hal had discovered its remains in the barn and asked if Barry wanted him to take a gander and repair it.

“You’re up early,” Barry said, keeping his voice low so as not to disturb Wally, who was still sleeping soundly in his bed near the stove. 

Hal glanced up from his tinkering. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

“I wasn’t pestering you, was I?” Barry asked, concerned. It had been so long since he’d shared a bed with someone that he’d woken up once or twice to find himself kicking at Hal like a mule. He was a hard sleeper and always had been, lost to the world once he went under. Iris had frequently complained about him holding whole conversations with himself in the dead of night. 

“Nah. Just couldn’t sleep, that’s all.” Hal tipped his head toward the stove, where a kettle of coffee was steaming on the range. “There’s brew left if you want some.”

Barry fetched himself a cup, sipping at it as he watched Hal’s fingers sift through the cogs and wires under the yellow light of the lamp. His handling of the tiny jeweller's tools was a mite clumsy, but he seemed determined to master them. In any case, he’d successfully dismantled the clock. Whether he could reassemble it was less certain. Fortunately, Barry wasn’t particularly attached to the old thing. 

Hal noticed him watching. “It’s alright that I’m workin’ on it?”

“Sure. Not like it can get more broken.” 

Hal’s smile withered. Before Barry could wonder at it, his attention was diverted by Wally, who had begun stirring in his bed and whimpering. Barry went to him at once and was alarmed to find the boy’s face a bit clammy to the touch, his arms clutched protectively across his stomach. With some coaxing, Wally admitted that he had a bellyache. Further investigation revealed that his bowels had been out of sorts the last few days, so Barry prescribed him a spoonful of the much-loathed castor oil. 

“It tastes bad,” Wally protested crankily as Barry sat him at the table and measured out the dose.

“‘Course it does, it’s castor oil,” Hal said, but his tone was sympathetic. “It ain’t supposed to taste like candy, chickabiddy.” 

Wally dodged the spoon, clamping his lips closed. 

“ _Wally_ ,” Barry said sternly. It was already half-past five, and they would be late for church if they didn’t start getting ready. “Quit your fooling.” 

Wally scowled, and Barry was gearing up for an explosion of temper when Hal suddenly slid in between them to set an empty shot-glass on the table. “Y’know, I think I feel a tetch unwell myself, and I’d rather not be feeling too poorly to enjoy some of that rhubarb pie later. Fill ‘er up, Barry.” 

Barry looked at him askance, but Hal just nodded, so he poured a miniscule drizzle of the castor into the shot-glass. Waiting until he had Wally’s full attention, Hal knocked it back and slammed the glass on the table with a loud ‘ _ahh’_ like he’d just had a straight draught of moonshine. He smacked his lips a bit and then looked over at Wally. “Well? You want the barkeep to top one up for you too, cowboy?”

Wally agreed, swallowing the oil with only a little wrinkle of his nose and trying to ape Hal’s dramatic gestures, smacking the shot-glass down with all the force he could muster, which wasn’t much. 

Barry couldn’t settle on whether to be impressed by the neat bit of trickery or annoyed that Hal had gotten Wally pretending that he was drinking alcohol, but the deed was done and they needed to leave soon if they were still going into town today.

He tucked Wally back into bed to rest and then went to confer with Hal. “I’d hate to miss the service. Reverend Corrigan only travels here once a month to preach. Do you reckon Guy would be willing to watch Wally until we came back?”

“I’ll stay with him,” Hal said easily. 

“You aren’t coming?”

“Why would I?” 

The question left Barry flummoxed. “Why---? Why, it’s just. . . .well, it’s what you do, isn’t it?” He’d always gone to church. Everyone went to church on Sunday, when they could. It was the only time everyone gathered in one place; it was where you got all the news, where you chatted with your neighbors, where you learned who was born or married or dead. Apart from the saloon, it was the only spot in town to share a lunch and a good conversation. “I’ll grant you, Reverend Corrigan can be a bit too fond of the fire-and-brimstone. If you don’t care to go, of course you’re not obliged.” 

“I don’t reckon your good reverend would want a Jew in his church.”

“I. . . I didn’t realize.” 

“You seen me naked, ain’t you?” 

Barry felt himself redden, his gaze darting over to Wally to make sure the boy was asleep. “Well, _yes_ , but. . . . Ahem. I take your point. Would Kyle like to come?” 

Hal looked amused. “Kyle’s mama was a Papist. An _Irish_ papist. This Corrigan fella would probably take a Jew before a Catholic. But it’s up to Kyle. Not my place to tell him whether to go.” 

It appeared that Barry would be making the trip alone today. Still, he ought to at least offer Kyle and Guy the choice, so he finished dressing and went out to the shed. Guy aired his lungs for a full minute about Barry making a ruckus at such an ungodly hour and then promptly started snoring again, but Kyle decided he wanted to ride along to town. 

“Alright,” Barry said, pleased that at least someone wanted to join him. “Get your church clothes on, and I’ll wrap up some breakfast for us to eat on the way.” 

Barry had a few victuals to purchase from Dibnys’ Dry Goods, so they took the cart. Kyle sat up on the driver’s bench with him, seeming alert despite the early hour. In short order, he admitted that he’d come along in the hopes of visiting the Dibnys’ store. When he’d gone in the last time with Wally, he’d spied a fine set of charcoals and had taken a fancy to them. Barry knew that the boy liked to sketch, having seen the elaborate chalk doodles that often decorated his writing slates, but he didn’t have any suitable pencils for drawing. 

“I told Guy,” Kyle explained, showing Barry the three jingling quarters stowed in his vest pocket, “and he gave me some money.”

“Is that enough to buy them?” 

“I asked Missus Dibny last time. She said they were seventy-five cents.” 

“We’ll stop there right after church,” Barry promised him. He knew that the Dibnys kept stationery in stock -- perhaps there was a notebook suitable for sketching that they could purchase as well. What was the point in buying fancy drawing pencils if all he had was butcher’s paper to use them on? Henry Allen had abided by the philosophy that if a child showed an interest or talent in something, it ought to be nurtured whether it was considered ‘useful’ or not, and Barry had endeavored to follow it with Wally. A man never knew when a skill might serve him well later in life. 

They arrived at the church late, but thankfully there were still a few other people milling around the open doors or finding their seats. It was terribly hot inside. The ladies were fanning themselves furiously, and several men had dared to shed their jackets. Big black files zipped through the stale air, having crept in through the broken windows -- the old church, which had once doubled as a schoolhouse, had fallen into shameful disrepair, now that Central City no longer had a live-in preacher or schoolmaster. 

Despite the heat and rough quarters, there was a good crowd. Barry took off his hat as he searched for a seat. Jay and Joan were up front with the Kents, but their bench was already full. A few people waved, or tipped their heads in silent acknowledgement. He spotted Ralph sitting with Jefferson Pierce and his daughters at the very back of the church, and there was just enough room to fit Kyle and himself on the end of the bench. Ralph shook Kyle’s hand enthusiastically as they were introduced.

Reverend Corrigan began the service in his usual fiery way, and Barry swallowed his distaste. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d told Hal that the reverend was full of fire and brimstone -- the man seemed to take an unseemly amount of pleasure in describing God’s wrathful vengeance on the sinners of the world. But he was the only one willing to make the ride out to Central City, and a preacher was a preacher. 

Thankfully, the sermon was relatively brief today. During the hymns, Barry noticed that Ralph and Kyle had gotten to talking, craned down so they wouldn’t be noticed. He stopped singing, curious as to what they were discussing, and it soon became apparent that Ralph was nosing around for information. 

“Guy took me to Mass sometimes,” Kyle was whispering. “He’d always fall asleep.” 

Ralph chortled, earning himself a glare from old Mr. Godfrey. “Sounds like a man after my own heart,” he murmured. “What a pity your brother Hal didn’t come. I’d’ve liked to meet him.” When he saw that Barry was listening, his smile took on an unsettling wicked edge. “I reckon we’ll meet one of these days, when Barry decides he’s done keepin’ his new paramour all to hisself, eh?”

“Yeah,” Kyle agreed guilelessly, and then his head tilted as he asked, just as the song ended, “What’s a paramour?”

“ _A-hem,_ ” the reverend harrumphed, and Barry determinedly avoided everyone’s stares.

As the three of them walked together to the Dibnys’ store after the service, it was plain to see that Ralph and Kyle had taken a shine to each other. It wasn’t unexpected, as Ralph was a likeable man with a whiff of boyish mischief about him. He and Barry had played together as children, and he’d been the first one to arrange a purchase contract with Barry’s orchard at a time when other merchants and vendors had been hesitant to, due to the Allen family’s scandal. 

Not that Barry had been keen on having any dealings with the townsfolk either, at that point in his life. Central City became the place where he saw his father for the last time, his body swinging from the gallows in the noonday sun. It had taken years to gradually reassociate the town with more than horror and disgrace.

The general store was always bustling on Sundays, and it was especially busy today. Ralph squeezed himself through the jostling bodies to get behind the counter where Sue was trying to keep some semblance of order, and Barry told Kyle to go find his charcoals. He waited in the queue, and by the time he’d made it to the counter, the crowd had thinned out. Sue waved him up eagerly, her pretty face alight.

Before he could say a word, she was exclaiming, “Did Ralph tell you the news?” 

Ralph looked over at his wife from where he stood cutting swatches from a bolt of printed muslin, his smile full of warm affection. “Saved it for you, Suzie.”

Sue planted her elbows on the counter in an intent manner, and Barry bent closer despite himself. “Bruce Wayne’s coming here,” she announced, in a tone of hushed glee.

“Who?” 

“ _Bruce Wayne_ , Barry, of the Gotham Waynes. I swear! How many millionaires named Wayne do you think there are in this country?”

Now that Sue mentioned it, the name did sound familiar -- something he’d read in a newspaper, or in the local broadsheets that Miss Lane wrote. “Oil?”

“Railroad,” she corrected. “And the word is that he’s here to meet with Mister Luthor.” 

That had Barry frowning. Lex Luthor, the big boss of the local rail company, operated in Metropolis, but he’d taken a vested interest in Central City and its surrounding land. It was his money that had funded the construction of the Assay Office, and rumors that he planned to buy up all the empty storefronts in town had been circulating for years now. Luthor seemed to consider himself something of an unofficial mayor, or a sort of benevolent patron of the simple folk. To Barry’s mind, he was nothing but a smooth-talking opportunist. 

“Why?” Barry asked. 

Ralph pulled a face. “Not like anyone’s liable to tell us.” 

“I wouldn’t be apt to trust them if they did,” Barry pointed out. “There’s nothing Luthor’s ever said that wasn’t a load of ballyhoo.”

“Well, whatever it is, Lois will sniff it out,” Sue said confidently. “Now, I’ve got some things to sniff out of _you_ , mister.” She jabbed Barry’s chest with her finger. “What’s this I hear about you getting _married_ without letting Ralph and me stand up for you?”

Barry winced. “It was. . . sudden. I’m sorry, I really am. I meant to --- well, here, let me introduce you to ----” He turned around hastily to beckon Kyle over, hoping that the boy’s amiability might soften Sue’s irritation, but Kyle was standing at the window, looking as though he’d had his heart broken plumb in half.

Concerned, Barry excused himself to see what was the matter. The problem was easy enough to ferret out -- the charcoal set the boy desperately wanted was now marked at a dollar -- and easy enough to remedy. 

“I’ll cover the difference,” Barry said. 

Kyle thanked him profusely. 

“Don’t thank me just yet,” he murmured, and he steered Kyle over to the counter. 

Luckily, Sue was as charmed as Ralph had been. When she learned that he liked to draw, she brought out several sheafs of loose paper, talking to him about the differences in paper quality and the best grain for charcoal. Sue was something of an artist herself; she painted all the signs and placards for the store. 

Kyle was obviously taken with her too, so Barry happily left them to their discussion and filed his orders with Ralph. After Kyle had selected his paper, Sue went into the back to bundle it up with twine. 

“You got off easy, y’know,” Ralph observed as he totaled up Barry’s purchases. “I admit, I didn’t much like havin’ to hear that my old pal Barry got hisself hitched from Booster Gold, of all people.”

“I _am_ sorry,” Barry said guiltily. “It just all happened so fast, and Hal wasn’t interested in a big to-do. Will you and Sue come to supper sometime so you can meet him properly?”

“Of course we will,” Ralph said, and that was just like him, letting a grievance go almost as soon as he’d aired it. “Alright, anythin’ else you forgot to get?”

“I think that’ll do. No, wait, I’ll get a piece of candy for Wally. He’s got a bellyache today, but he’ll want something when he’s feeling better.” He started to ask Kyle if he wanted a piece as well, but Kyle had wandered over to the big barrel of loose tobacco. The boy had plucked up a few leaves in his palm and was sniffing them. 

“You’re a bit young for that yet,” Barry called to him. “I’d rather you picked candy instead.”

Kyle looked up, startled. He tipped the leaves back into their barrel and hastened back to the counter, looking like he’d been scolded. “No, it’s just -- the smell. It smells like Johnny. He always smoked his pipe after supper. I liked the smell of it.” He shuffled his feet and said, more quietly, “I miss him.” 

“I’m sure you do,” Barry said gently. 

Sue reappeared with the paper. “Anything else you’d like?”

Barry was about to say no, but this was the last run for staples that he’d do until after harvest, and it seemed he was bringing something home for everyone except. . . . “I was thinking I’d like to get a small present for Hal.” 

Sue clasped her hands at her bosom, beaming. “Ah! What’s his favorite flower? We’ve had some beautiful hothouse roses come in straight from Miss Isley last night.”

“I’m not sure he cares for flowers.”

“ _Men_. How about some sweets? I’ll give you a scoop for free, as a wedding present,” she laughed, reaching for a waxed paper bag. “What does he like?”

Barry stared at the row of glass jars blankly, taken by the realization that he didn’t know that either. He didn’t know if Hal preferred butterscotch to horehound drops, if he liked the taste of chocolate or if caramel stuck in his teeth. He didn’t know if Hal liked roses. He didn’t know if Hal had a favorite color, or a favorite cologne, or if he’d wear a hair pomade if he was gifted one. 

His face must have given him away, because Sue’s gaze became judgmental. 

“For Pete’s sake, Barry. A little romance wouldn’t go amiss.” 

Sheepishly, Barry applied to Kyle for help, but Kyle wasn’t of any use -- it seemed that there hadn’t been money for extra indulgences and gifts among them, so he didn’t have a clue as to Hal’s preferences either. In defeat, Barry chose an inoffensive bag of peppermint sticks. 

Ralph helped him get the load into the wagon, and Barry paid his bill and bid the Dibnys goodbye. He’d gotten all that he needed, but a feeling of dissatisfaction nagged at him. Just after he’d handed Kyle up into the wagon, he chanced to spot young Vic Stone coming out of the smithy’s. 

An idea popped into his head. 

“Wait here,” he told Kyle. He flagged down Vic, dodging a few horses and a cart as he jogged across the street. 

“Mornin’, Mister Allen. I hear I owe you congratulations,” Vic said amiably, shaking his hand. 

Barry thanked him. Vic was carrying a rope net filled with what had to be a hundredweight of horseshoes, so he got right to the point. “Clark mentioned that your coonhound bitch had another litter and you were looking to sell. I don’t suppose you’ve still got any left?”

When Barry and Kyle finally left Central City, it was in the company of a speckled coonhound puppy, the runt of the litter. As under-grown as the dog was, Vic assured them that she was healthy and had a sweet temperament; she certainly seemed to, content to curl in Kyle’s lap and chew playfully at his fingers as they rode home. 

“What do you reckon?” Barry asked, smiling as he scritched the pup’s round belly and got his hand gnawed on for his trouble. “Will Hal like her?”

“I think so. He had a dog when he was little. I don’t remember it’s name, but he told me about it once. And Hal used to let Johnny’s terrier sleep in his bed, even though it wasn’t allowed.” Kyle grinned as the puppy nosed into his shirt, and then he added, abruptly, “Thank you for the paper.”

“You’re welcome.” The boy was fidgeting, like he had something more to say, so Barry waited him out. 

“I know it’s a waste of time,” Kyle continued, somewhat meekly. “So, it’s nice, is all.” 

Barry turned round to look at him, puzzled. “I don’t think it’s a waste of time. You have a real talent, Kyle. I saw that little sketch you did of the house -- it’s better than anything I could have drawn if I’d put hours and hours into it.” 

Kyle was staring down at his boots now. When he spoke again, it was in a voice so soft that Barry had to lean over to hear him. “Is it good enough for school, you do think?”

It took Barry a second to understand. “Art school, you mean? Is that what you’re talking about?”

The hand that wasn’t cradling the puppy had begun to pluck nervously at a patch on his pants leg. “Guy and Hal don’t say so, but I know they think I can’t go. It costs a lot of money. Johnny thought I could. He was the only one who did.” 

Barry considered it for a moment. “There might be ways,” he offered. “You’ve still got time to save money, and some schools will help pay your way if you prove you’ve got a good mind for studying.” 

“There aren’t any schools out here, though.” 

“No,” Barry agreed “You’d probably go East, to one of the big cities.” 

“I had to leave Mama when I went to board with the Jesuits. I missed her so much, all the time.” 

“I’m sure your ma wanted you to have the best education she could give you.” 

Kyle shrugged half-heartedly, stroking the puppy’s floppy ears. “All I wanted was to come home. And then she died.” 

Barry bit his lip, unsure of what to say, but Kyle was already carrying on: “If I went away to art school, I’d have to leave Guy and Hal, and I’d miss them. And Wally.”

“That’s a ways off yet, son. You may feel differently once you’re a young man looking to see the world.” 

“I guess so,” Kyle said. 

It was late afternoon by the time Lightning cleared the hill to the farm. From a distance, Barry spotted a little red-headed figure running wild in the chicken pen as Hal scattered corn feed. It was a relief to see that Wally was obviously feeling more like himself. The castor oil must have done the trick. 

Barry drew the cart right up to the chicken coop. “Go ahead,” he whispered, and Kyle grinned at him conspiratorially, the puppy concealed as best as it could be in the folds of his shirt.

“Come look, Hal!” Kyle cried. “We got a present for you!”

Hal was already stepping over the chicken wire, empty pail in hand. His eyebrows rose. “For me, huh?” 

He strolled over to the wagon bed, and Barry felt about as antsy as Kyle looked. It had been impulsive, especially when he was meant to be saving for the new water pump, but even if Hal didn’t like her, it wouldn’t hurt to have a hound dog for the farm. 

Hal paused when he caught sight of the creature squirming in Kyle’s arms.

“She’s for you!” Kyle said eagerly. “Mister Allen bought her.” 

Hal picked up the yipping, wet-nosed ball of fur, holding her at arm’s-length to get a good look at her. “Well, now, ain’t you just a doll?” He laughed when the puppy wriggled around to lick his nose. Barry relaxed, pleased that his gift had been well-received. 

Wally shrieked. “A puppy!”

“You want to hold her, chickabiddy? Be careful now,” Hal warned, and he placed the puppy into Wally’s outstretched arms. “She’s awful young, so be sure you don’t drop her.”

“She’s so itty-bitty,” Wally exclaimed, burying his face in soft fur. “Thank you, Uncle Barry!”

“She’s Hal’s present,” Barry reminded him, “but I’m sure he’ll let you play with her.” 

“‘Course you can,” Hal said, smiling. He looked up at Barry. “You got anything that needs takin’ in? Did they have the flour you wanted?”

“Sure, most everything can go in the root cellar. They had the twenty pound sacks in again, so I got three. I found some corn meal for a good price too.”

Hal wedged a boot into the wheel well and swung up to reach the packages at the front of the wagon bed. “I’ll take ‘em in,” he said. To Barry’s immense surprise, he craned forward to peck a dry kiss on Barry’s mouth before swinging down with all the flour sacks over his shoulders. “Thanks, by the by.” 

Before Barry could respond, Kyle was tugging at Hal’s shirttail to get his attention. “Where’s Guy? Me and Wally want to show him our dog.” 

“In the house,” Hal said, grunting as he shifted the bags further onto his back. “Here, walk with me. Now what about names? You reckon you two can help me come up with a good name for this li’l lady?”

Barry sat there on the bench and watched them go, his lips tingling.

***

Late July rolled in hard, bringing with it a sultry, miserable heat. It was only a few weeks now until the harvest would start in earnest, so Barry prayed that the worst of the weather would pass before they had to spend their days out in the orchard from dawn until dusk. 

The humidity peaked at the end of the week, the air so thick that no one wanted to do anything. Wally and Kyle fed the chickens, but Barry excused them from the rest of their chores, and Hal had the idea to fill the washtub with cold water for them to soak in. The boys stayed there until their hands and feet were as wrinkled as raisins and then came inside to flop on the floor like tired puppies, too hot even to be interested in games. 

Hal and Guy went to the barn to feed the rest of the animals, and Barry busied himself in the dim cool of the root cellar, taking account of what stores remained for winter and clearing space for the new jars of preserves and kegs of cider that they’d produce after harvest. He liked having everything in apple pie order ahead of time. 

Itty followed him as he worked -- she’d barked at the top of the ladder until Barry relented and carried her down. With the boys napping and Hal off in the barn, where the puppy wasn’t allowed, the poor thing was clearly starving for company, so Barry didn’t mind her underfoot.

Around lunchtime, he was distracted from his task by the sound of boots on the ladder, and he looked over to see Hal coming down with two bottles of brown beer in hand. Itty whimpered excitedly at the appearance of her favorite, her tail a whirling dervish as she leapt at Hal for attention. Barry took one of the bottles gratefully -- it was cold and dripping water, so Hal must have dunked them in the well beforehand to chill. 

Hal looked like he’d taken a dunk himself, as his hair was wet and the smell of his sweat was too muted for someone who’d spent all morning laboring in the heat. They drank their beers in silence, and then Hal began to prowl around the crowded cellar curiously. “Anything I can do to help?” 

“I reckon I’ve finished up here. Just a few things yet to add to the ledger.”

“Is that a camera?” Hal asked suddenly. Barry turned to see that he’d lifted the lid of the big steamer trunk at the end of the shelves.

“It’s broken,” he said, coming over to switch aside the linens so that Hal could better view the pieces arranged at the bottom of the silk-lined trunk. “It belonged to Iris’s father. Ira was a daguerreotypist. He taught Iris and Rudy once they were old enough to help him process them.” 

Hal looked fascinated. “Never seen one up close.” He picked up a loose lens, its thick, clear glass marred by a hairline crack, and Itty sniffed at it. “Did you ever use it?” 

“I helped Iris, mostly.” Barry had liked to watch her, how confidently she’d evaluated the light and the shadows, how she’d arranged a scene for the best possible image, how expertly she’d treated the plates in their chemical baths. She could have made a career of it, with her talent. “She always let me help with the chemical treatment. You had to time things just right, or the picture wouldn’t turn out.” 

Hal was looking at him, his interest now directed at Barry. “Sounds like you loved it too.”

“I did.” The set-up, the artistic arrangement of the camera and the subjects -- that had been less interesting to him, but he’d always loved chemistry. He’d taken a great deal of pleasure in mixing the silver nitrate baths and preparing the bromine vapor, treating the wet plates and polishing the lot with lampblack and nitric acid. When he was done, he and Iris would huddle together like eager children to watch the image rapidly appear, as if by magic. 

Barry dug deeper into the fabric until he found what he was looking for. “This was the last one we ever took,” he said, showing Hal the plate encased in glass. 

“Ah!” Hal exclaimed, grinning. “Look at that little nipper.” 

The image was a mite faded, even treated and carefully stored as it was, but Wally’s curls were unmistakable, his tiny fists balled up as he slept. Barry remembered the afternoon they’d taken it. Wally had wailed like a banshee through it all, and Barry had been sure the whole thing would be a bust. Iris had been determined, though, and right as she’d readied the plate, Wally had fallen sound asleep in his basket. The daguerreotype had turned out beautifully, Wally’s face captured in perfect, sweet repose. 

Iris had died two months later. Barry still sorely wished that he’d insisted on taking a daguerreotype of her. At least there would have been a picture to show Wally of his aunt, a picture that Barry could have looked back on fondly when the terrible grief had lessened. It was one of his deepest regrets. 

Hal put the lens back in its place and was trailing his fingers across the polished wood of the box stand. “How much work do you suppose it would take to fix it?” 

“It’s the lens, mainly. One side of the box needs to be nailed back in place, but it would have to be fitted with a new lens first.”

Hal scratched his chin. “I reckon the glass would have to be special-ordered.” 

“There’s a company in Chicago you can order it from, custom-made.” 

“Why haven’t you?”

Barry glanced up in surprise. “Suppose I hadn’t thought about it, really. It costs a pretty penny. Besides, you need at least two people to operate the camera, and I don’t think I’d’ve trusted Wally not to break everything else.” 

Hal chuckled. “No, I guess not.” He watched idly as Barry painstakingly rewrapped the portrait and camera. “Seems a shame to have such a wonderful contraption without being able to use it.” 

“There’s not much call for it even if it were in use,” Barry said, relatching the trunk. 

Hal looked at him with a quizzical tilt to his brow. “Sure there is. You don’t think folks around here would line up for the chance to have a portrait of their family? I doubt there’s another camera for miles around. Set up a little studio, advertise around town, and I bet you'd find yourself flush with cash.” 

“Things are done differently around here, Hal. I don’t like the thought of taking money from people’s pockets.” 

“It’s not like you’d be shakin’ ‘em down to take their picture unless they wanted it,” Hal said, amused. “Never mind it, then. Although. . . . Well, here’s a fine notion! How about you take some nudey portraits of me, and we can sell ‘em in town. I reckon there are at least a few folks with taste who’d love to have me battin’ my lashes at ‘em from their mantle.”

Barry laughed, and then laughed all the louder when Hal’s mouth pursed in a feigned pout. 

“Alright, if you’re gonna be an addle-pot about my idea, I’ll figure something else out,” Hal said primly. “Here now, take one of Gardner. You could sell it to one of them travelin’ circuses, and they could put it on display.” He puffed out his chest, swinging his arms wide like a carnival barker. Itty yipped. ‘‘Gentlemen, step right up! Ladies, shield your eyes! Behold, the Man With a Horse’s Ass for a Face!’”

“Oh, that’s cruel.”

“Yeah, but it were funny,” Hal said unrepentantly. “‘S’not like he don’t call me worse. Heck, he called me a greedy whore this morning because I took the last rasher of bacon.” He must have caught the look on Barry’s face, because he hastily added, “Wally didn’t hear.”

Barry just sighed. “I wish you two’d temper your language around the boys.” 

Hal collected the empty bottles and swung up onto the first rung off the ladder. “I’ll try,” he said, too cheekily to be properly sincere. “But I’m not swearin’ any promises on Guy’s behalf. From him, that was akin to an endearment.”

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Arbuckle's was a popular brand of coffee. 
> 
> 2\. There are several videos on Youtube that demonstrate how daguerreotypes were taken with period-accurate cameras. It's quite a laborious process and very interesting to watch.


	4. The Harvest of a Quiet Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harvest season leaves no time for idle hands, but trouble is brewing anyway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: sexual content, ableist language, profanity, and non-graphic reference to mutilation.

* * *

_The Harvest of a Quiet Mind_

* * *

* * *

  
  


“You want help with that, Jay?” Hal called out. 

Barry wiped a hand across his forehead, the heavy leather of his glove sticking against sweat. He shaded his eyes against the blazing sun to see what had caught Hal’s attention and spied Jay struggling to pull a pile of empty bushel baskets twice his height out of the wagon. The stack wavered and Jay wobbled, and just as Barry was about to leap down from his ladder, Clark swept in and steadied both the baskets and the man. 

“Easy, now.” Clark took the entire load with a smile so guileless that even the most prideful fellow wasn’t likely to get puffed up about it. “You alright?”

“Thanks, son,” Jay said, bending hand-on-knee to catch his breath. “Bit off more than I could chew there. Don’t tell Joanie, eh?”

“Not a word,” Clark promised. 

“Tell her what? I didn’t see nothin’.” Hal tossed down another apron-full of apples into an already overflowing pile. “Comin' down, kid,” he told Kyle, who stood below holding the ladder steady.

Barry watched his husband drag the full crate over to the Garricks’ double-length cart. Hal mopped at his brow with his sleeve and unstoppered one of the canteens, taking a long drink before handing it over to Kyle, who quaffed it down like a lathered racehorse. 

“It’s so hot,” he heard Kyle sigh. 

Hal took the canteen back and poured some water into his cupped palm to splash against the back of Kyle’s neck. The boy immediately complained about how cold it was, and even from his high perch, Barry could see a spark of mischief flicker to life in Hal’s face. In a blink, he had Kyle in a headlock and was threatening to douse his whole head. 

“Don’t drown ‘im,” Guy drawled from where he was tethered up in the boughs to get at the higher fruit. “Auntie Maura’d have my balls.”

With solemn ceremony, Hal poured a stream of water over a writhing Kyle’s head. “My child, I baptize you in the name of the Father, Apple Pie, and the Spirit of the Four Dollars That Dirty Honey-fuggling Guy Gardner Still Owes Me. Amen.”

Kyle shrieked with laughter, squirming like a scruffed kitten to get out of Hal’s grasp. Hal let him go, ruffling his soaked black hair, and then yelped, indignant, as the apple Guy hurled struck him smack dab in the ear. 

“Don’t blaspheme, you sonuvabitch!”

“Now, fellas,” Jay said, “don’t you make me fetch Joanie over here.” 

“Yessir.” 

“Sorry, sir.” 

“Sorry, Mister Garrick.”

Barry chuckled to himself, swabbing his overheated face once more before reaching back up into the tangle of leaves and stems. There was still so much work to be done.

Fall harvest was the busiest time of the year, but Providence hadn’t had any mercy: the weather was still as hot as Hades. Barry had already made the rounds among his neighbors, pitching in where he could while he waited for his apples to reach the correct maturation for picking. As back-breaking as the work could be, there was also gaiety, good conversation, and more food than a body could shake a stick at -- payment for services rendered always came in the form of scrumptious home-cooked meals for all of the laborers. 

Hal and Guy had accompanied him on the circuit without complaint, and now that it was time to harvest their own crops, Kyle helped where he could too, fetching things and supporting the tall ladders. Wally was too young to be out among the high trees, so he was with Joan and Mr. and Mrs. Kent back at the farmhouse. 

Despite the wretched heat, the Kents had come over every day for the past week to help with Barry’s harvest. Mr. and Mrs. Kent were getting up in years and couldn’t manage much more than sorting through the baskets to weed out the wormy, rotten fruit and set aside the soft or misshapen apples that would be better for preserves, but Clark could do the work of five strong men himself. 

Hal’s reaction when the Kents arrived that first morning had been a blunt, “Holy Jehosephat,” and a look of half-alarmed awe. That was most everyone’s first response to meeting Clark, who looked like he could wrassle a full-grown steer to the ground without breaking a sweat. But he was perhaps the gentlest soul Barry knew, and his soft-spoken ways made him especially popular with the local children. Wally adored Clark. It hadn’t taken long for Kyle to warm up to him either; this morning he’d even shyly sat up on Clark’s massive shoulders to reach the lower boughs and pick a few apples for himself. 

Movement beneath his ladder cut off Barry’s reverie. He instinctively anchored himself with the nearest branch, but it was only Hal, who held up the canteen in silent offer. 

“Thanks,” Barry said gratefully, shimmying down far enough to take it. He drank deeply, and the water was a blessed cool balm on a throat that felt like parched sandpaper. 

“Barry, is anyone else comin’ to help today?” Clark called suddenly.

Barry leaned out from the trunk, straining to see where Clark had climbed into the upper boughs. The ladder swayed with his movements, and from the corner of his eye, he saw Hal grab it. “Not that I know of. Why?”

“There are some riders headed this way. Can’t rightly see with the sun there. Just a minute.” 

Barry twisted around to pass the canteen back, only to find himself pinned by a stern look of reproof. It was so unexpected -- and so ill-fitting, on Hal’s carefree countenance -- that it gave him a moment’s pause. “What?”

“Maybe don’t dance a jig while you’re twenty feet up in the air,” Hal said. 

“The ladder’s planted.”

“So? Don’t mean it can’t fall backwards. I ain’t ready to bury you in a pine box yet.” 

“Yet?” Barry teased. He glanced up and saw Jay watching them keenly from where he sat resting on the cart bench, and he felt uncomfortable, all of a sudden. “Well, I’m fine. But I take your point.” 

“Three riders up by the ridge, and at a fast clip too,” Clark announced. There was the sound of rustling leaves and then a pause. “Why, that’s Diana! I can’t make out who’s with her from here.” 

They weren’t kept in suspense. Sheriff Prince was always a welcome guest on Barry’s land, but her companions were less so -- one of the two riders was Lex Luthor, and with him was a tall, broad-shouldered stranger.

“Isn’t this an invigorating scene,” Luthor said silkily as he drew his dappled mare to a stop beneath Barry’s tree. “It almost makes one want to join in, doesn’t it, Wayne?” 

“Quite,” the man agreed. He was outfitted in full sportsman’s togs from his diamond-polished boots to the starched white of his riding gloves, but he sat oddly on his horse, his weight far too forward and one hand periodically gripping the pommel. He clearly wasn’t at home in the saddle, his elaborate costume aside. 

“Now, now, where is. . . . Ah, there you are, Allen.” Luthor doffed his crushed velvet hat only as far as courtesy demanded and not an inch more. “I was just telling Mister Wayne about your charming apple orchard. Barry, this is Bruce Wayne, lately arrived from Gotham and a dear new friend of mine.” 

Barry removed his own straw hat, climbing about halfway down the ladder. Invited or not, it wasn’t right to be discourteous to visitors. “A pleasure, sir.” 

“The pleasure’s all mine, I’m sure.” Wayne tried to steady his horse, pulling the tasseled reins too limply to give the poor creature clear direction, and Barry got a better look at him. He didn’t know what a millionaire was supposed to look like, but he supposed he’d expected someone older and stouter, someone who’d gone to seed after years spent reclining in the lap of luxury. Wayne was perhaps thirty or so and cut a fine figure, in an overly foppish sort of way. 

“Mister Garrick,” Luthor noted, and Jay inclined his head. “Do give my regards to the lovely Missus Garrick.” Without waiting for an answer, he turned his cold gray eyes on Hal. “And who is this?” 

“Hal Allen. My husband,” Barry replied, at the exact same instant that Hal said, “Hal Jordan.” 

Hal, bless him, reacted swiftly, before the acute awkwardness of the moment could really set in. “Call me Hal. We got ourselves hitched just a few months back. Still new to us, y’see.” 

“Of course. Well, my heartiest congratulations on your marriage, Barry. I hadn’t heard, or I certainly would have sent a wedding present.” 

“You’re very kind, sir,” Barry said tersely. He felt Hal’s fingers brush against his ankle. 

Luthor’s interest in them was fleeting, for he’d finally caught sight of Clark. “Kent. What a rare privilege to see you twice in one week.” 

“Afternoon, Mister Luthor.” It was only because Barry knew Clark as well as he did that he heard the undercurrent of distaste there. 

“Wayne, this is Clark Kent. His father is something of a local cattle baron.” 

“We keep cattle,” Clark corrected mildly. He came down his ladder in swift, easy bounds and dusted off his palms on his britches as he approached the horses. “It’s real nice to meet you, sir, and I hope you’re enjoying your visit. Welcome.” He stuck out his hand. 

Wayne eyed Clark’s dirt-streaked fingers dubiously and then removed one snow-white glove to shake. Clark didn’t react at all, but Barry was aghast at the careless insult. 

“I apologize for our intrusion,” Sheriff Prince said. There was no trace of annoyance in the exquisite lines of her face, but her brawny shoulders were tense. “Mister Wayne expressed an interest in seeing more than the town, so I offered to escort the gentlemen on their tour this afternoon.” 

Barry would bet a round of drinks at Gold’s that it hadn’t been an offer so much as an order. Sheriff Prince was as fair and impartial as any lawman could be, but everyone knew that there was no love lost between her and Luthor. They hadn’t tangled publicly, and Diana was far too circumspect for idle talk, but rumor had it that Luthor had tried to buy the sheriff’s goodwill when she’d first taken her post. Knowing Luthor even as glancingly as he did, Barry could believe it. 

He felt another, firmer tug on his ankle and glanced down to see Hal giving him a pointed look. Seeing that Luthor’s and Wayne’s attention was fixed on Clark, he climbed down the ladder until Hal could stretch up to whisper in his ear. 

“Who’s the egghead?”

“I’ll explain later,” Barry murmured, “but I wouldn’t call him a friend.” 

Hal raised his brows. “He liable to cause trouble?”

“Not physically. That’s not his style.” Still, this was Barry’s land, and he didn’t want Luthor lingering on it. He tucked a few more apples into his leather apron and then started to descend from the high branches for the first time in hours. Hal stepped aside, but when Barry moseyed as subtly as he could to stand with Clark, he stayed close at his back. Guy had come down from his tree as well and kept a watchful distance, one big hand on Kyle’s shoulder. 

“You’ll have to excuse us,” Barry said bluntly, “but we need to get this load back to the farm. I hope you enjoy your tour, Mister Wayne -- and if you intend to come to the fair, you ought to try our honey apple cider. We always bring a few jugs.”

Wayne glanced down at him as though he’d forgotten that Barry was there. “The fair?”

Clark grinned. “It’s a tradition here. Anyone’s welcome to come. We have a fair in town, you see, to celebrate the end of harvest. There’s music and dancin', and everybody brings some vittles to share.”

“How charming,” Wayne said, sounding thoroughly bored. 

Clark’s square jaw clenched a little, but he didn’t say anything else. 

“I’m sure you have a great many things to do,” Luthor said. His smile had no warmth in it. “A pleasant afternoon to you all. Madam Sheriff?”

“With me, gentlemen, if you please,” she said crisply. “May you have a fruitful harvest, Barry. Take care.”

The riders took off to the east at a gallop, probably toward the Garricks’ place, and soon vanished in the cover of the trees. 

“What a pair of bastards,” Guy said to no one in particular, and Barry couldn’t find it in himself to disagree. 

***

Hal stood at the stove, sampling the pot of goulash he’d made. It seemed he couldn’t settle on how much seasoning to put in. He’d add a pinch more peppercorn, take a slurp, make a face, and then reach for something else, only to repeat the same process all over again. 

After a few minutes of watching this, Barry felt obliged to intervene before their supper ended up saltier than a dried-up seabed. “Hal.” 

Hal glanced over, the ladle halfway to his lips. 

“You need some help there?”

Hal put down the spoon and covered the bubbling pot with a sigh, frowning. “I can’t make it taste right,” he said unhappily. “It always had a kick when Mama made it. I swear I follow her recipe the exact same, but it never comes out like hers.” 

The door swung open and Guy ambled inside, but there was no sign of Wally and Kyle. 

“Where are the boys?” Barry asked.

“Dunked ‘em in the tub, along with the dog. I figured if they didn’t wash up afore supper, they’d be eatin’ more dirt than anythin' else.” He raised his head and sniffed loudly. “You makin’ your ma’s goulash?” He tried to lift the lid, only to get his hand smacked away.

“‘S’not done.”

Guy grunted, pulling up a chair next to Barry at the table and collapsing into it heavily. The wood groaned in protest. “Damn, I feel like I got dragged by a herd of mustangs. You live a man’s life out here, Allen.” 

“I’ve got lanolin,” Barry offered. His own muscles were a trifle achy, but after years of practice, his body was pretty well used to the strain of hours of picking and climbing and carrying. He could imagine how much Guy and Hal and Kyle were hurting, though. 

“Nah, I can manage.” He fished out his carving knife and his newest project: a tiny sparrow with spread wings. “So, what was the deal with Baldy and his pal? Must say, your sheriff’s mighty fine to look at. Helluva woman.” 

_Must you?_ Barry nearly said. “I assume Luthor’s looking to get new investors.”

“Didn’t seem like you liked him much.” 

“I don’t, to tell God’s honest truth.”

“He cheat you or somethin’?” 

“He’s been known to, if it makes a good deal for him,” Barry admitted, settling back in his chair. “He wanted this land back when it still belonged to Clark’s pa. For years, he tried to convince old Mister Kent to sell to him. He never would, and Lex was furious when I got the deed. Tried to outbid me and then came to Iris and me with an offer to build us a big house somewhere else if we would sign the back forty over to him. We said no, of course. Every few years, he’ll ride up with another offer, trying to sweeten the deal. He’s done the same to Jay and Joan, I know, and a few other people around here.” 

“Why?” Hal asked, looking intrigued. “Why’s he want it so bad?”

“My land abuts both of theirs, and if you follow through in a straight line, our property’s low-lying compared to the surrounding hills. It would be the easiest area to lay track, if you were building a direct route to Metropolis. There isn’t one now -- you have to stop over in Fallville -- and Luthor wants his name on it. He’s got his fingers in a bunch of pies, but he’s a railroad man first and foremost. Could be that he’s trying to get a line of credit from Wayne to buy plots up. Nobody is going to sell to him, though.” Barry shook his head. “It’s complicated. There are a lot of things in play. Clark knows more about it than I do, so he’d be better to ask if you’re curious.”

Guy had stopped whittling. “This fella, he ever threaten you?”

Hal turned around at that, frowning. Barry shook his head. “No. That’s not his way. He’s not that direct. But every once in a while, a couple of the Kents’ cattle go missing. Sometimes they turn up on someone else’s land, sometimes they’re just plumb gone. We don’t get cattle thieves in these parts, so I’d say it’s a bit suspicious. I know Clark is convinced he’s behind it.”

“No shit,” Guy remarked. “Too much of a coincidence.” He shook his head and returned to his work, notching a row of feathers with blunt precision. “Well, you need me to rough him up, give me a holler ‘n a hoot.” 

“No, thank you,” Barry said firmly, and Hal laughed. 

***

By the week’s end, the shed was filled with basket upon basket, overflowing crates stacked nearly to the ceiling. With most of the picking and sorting done, it was time to start the long process of preparing the apples for sale, canning, and the cider press. 

Now that the bulk of the harvesting had been finished, the Kents needed to go back to attend to their own work. It was calving season, and they would have their hands full soon. While old Mr. Kent deployed their hands to help drive the expectant cows into the paddock, Clark and Mrs. Kent came to Barry’s farm for one last day to tidy up and make sure that things were in place for Barry to finish his gargantuan task at a more leisurely pace. 

With Clark and Hal’s assistance, Barry was loading up the bushels of fresh apples that would be sold directly to the Dibnys’ store when Wally came running excitedly up to the cart. 

“Missus Kent says there’s a mama cow who’s going to have her baby today, and me and Kyle can come see!” he announced. “Can we go, please? She says they’ve already got three new babies who’ve been borned.” 

“Born,” Barry corrected absently. “You’re too young for that, Wally. Birth isn’t a pretty sight. You might find it scary.” 

“I’m not scared!”

“I didn’t mean you would be,” Barry soothed, “but I don’t think it’s something you ought to see yet, alright? This won’t be your only chance. The Kents’ cows have calves every year, and you can go watch when you’re older.”

“But Guy already said _Kyle_ could go!”

“Well, that’s up to Guy, and Kyle’s older than you.” 

Wally’s disappointment was written over every inch of his crestfallen face. “Uncle Barry, please!”

Barry turned back to the cart, shaking his head. “Didn’t you hear me say no? You have lessons to do right now anyway.” 

“There are _always_ lessons!” Wally exploded. “You never want me to do anything fun. It’s not fair!”

“Now, that’s enough!” Barry said sternly. He raised Wally with a softer hand than his own father had, but he wasn’t going to tolerate outright disrespect. “I don’t want to hear another word of complaint from you, or you’ll have twice the work to do tomorrow. Inside. _Go_.” 

A teary-eyed Wally stomped off toward the house, almost trembling with anger, and Barry felt a moment’s remorse before Hal spoke up.

“He’s not that young.”

“I don’t want him having nightmares about seeing all that blood.”

Hal shrugged. “I think he’d handle it better’n you believe. I grew up seein’ horses breed and have their foals. Never did me any harm. If you treat it as natural, he won’t think nothing of it.” 

Barry glanced over at Clark, who held up his big hands meekly. “Don’t look at me, now. I helped with my first calving when I was younger than Wally. Not like Ma and Pa could’ve kept me from seein’ it all anyway, when you’ve got animals everywhere.” 

Barry was beginning to get irritated. “Well, Wally’s never seen any of that.” 

“Don’t imagine he has, bein' under your skirts as he is,” Hal mumbled.

“Excuse me?” Barry said, sharpish. 

Hal rolled his shoulders back. “I don’t mean it like that.”

“I’m at a loss as to how else you might’ve meant it.” 

Hal gazed at him for an endless minute, as if weighing whether or not to bother responding. Clark cleared his throat and picked up the nearest crate, vanishing discreetly into the shed -- or at least as discreetly as a man of his size could, which wasn’t very. 

“Well?” Barry prompted. 

“All I’m sayin’ is that you tend to hold the reins pretty tight with that boy,” Hal said finally. “That’s all.” 

The admonishment stung like a nettle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“The kid’s got a point. You keep him so close to home. A boy his age needs time to play and roam around, to explore. You know, all the things that we did when we were boys. You don’t always have to have your eye on him -- Kyle’s smart enough to keep them out of any real trouble.”

“Kyle’s a child too. You want me to pawn my boy off on him?”

Hal’s eyes narrowed. “Now, that’s not what I said at all. If you’d----”

Barry cut him off, well and truly incensed now. “You’re not a father. You don’t understand what that means, and you don’t know what the devil you’re talking about. I’ll raise Wally how _I_ see fit, and I’ll thank you not to pick fights with me in front of my neighbors.”

“Hold your damn horses! You’ve raised him right fine, and I’m not sayin’ otherwise. Wally reminds me of _me_ , when I was his age, and I’d hate for things to. . . .” Hal shook his head brusquely and started to walk away. “Never mind. Forget I opened my big mouth.” 

Barry didn’t try to stop him. Instead he strode off in the opposite direction, heading to the barn to cool off. 

He poured out some fresh oats for Lightning and began brushing her down, and it didn’t take long at all for his ire to leave him. Mostly he just felt mortified. Anger never sat well with Barry, and neither did conflict. He didn’t like being at odds with anyone, and he was disappointed in himself for having raised his voice to both Wally and Hal today. 

He patted Lightning’s velvety nose as he worked to untangle her mane. The curry comb came away with a wad of hair -- the poor old girl’s coat seemed to thin more with every passing week -- but she held still, as biddable and patient as ever. 

“Good girl,” Barry murmured. He’d been lucky to get her; in all the years they’d ridden together, she’d never once bucked him or put up a fuss about getting re-shoed. Big as she was, she was a perfect mount for novice riders. 

The thought gave Barry a moment’s pause, and he stopped brushing, frowning down at the comb in his hand. Wally still didn’t know how to ride. How many times had Barry promised to teach him? Wally had been asking to learn since he was three or four, but he’d been told he was too young yet and had to wait until he was five, and then six, and then seven. 

Wally was almost eight now. 

Barry thought of what he’d said to Hal about not being a father, and he winced. There’d been no call for that sort of thing, especially since Hal had made such an effort to be good to Wally. And wasn’t having another parent for his nephew the whole reason he had gotten the idea to remarry at all? 

Barry soberly finished his grooming and left Lightning to her lunch, latching the stall door behind him. He checked on Claudine, who bleated at him balefully, and then left the barn to look for Hal. 

He found him sitting against the shaded side of the house, hard at work peeling the apples that would be sliced up and pressed into cider. Itty was curled up against his leg, her tail drumming a slow, lazy beat on the ground. 

“I’m sorry,” Barry said.

Hal waved a dismissive hand. “It’s fine.” 

“I didn’t let you finish. You can always say your piece with me, even if I don’t like hearing it.” 

“Sit, would you? Your shadow’s blockin’ my sun.”

Barry sat. He scratched Itty’s chin when she raised her head to snuffle her wet pink nose into his hand. 

“When I was near to Kyle’s age,” Hal said, “I mucked out stables for this toff who didn’t know a damn about keeping horses. One of his stallions was a big ol’ thing, probably seventeen hands tall, and he kept it penned up when it weren’t being rented out for breeding. It spent all its life in that stall.” The paring knife in Hal’s hand moved swiftly and surely, a long ribbon of red skin spiraling down into the dirt. “Now, you’d think a horse like that would go tearin’ away at the first chance, looking to run, but whenever I opened the gate, it just stood there. Wouldn’t move at all until you took it by the reins and led it around.” 

Barry petted Itty’s speckled belly, and her tail thumped harder. He wasn’t sure what to say to that little parable, so he settled on a noncommittal, “This land can be dangerous. There’s nothing wrong with being careful.” 

“You can’t live life bein’ scared of everything.” 

“That life won’t be very long if you don’t have a lick of self-preservation.”

“No, it won’t,” Hal said, “and there are things worth being afeared of. But a fella has to be able to recognize the difference, don’t you think?”

Barry considered it as they lapsed into silence. In some fashion, he was aware that he mother-henned Wally, compared to how other children were raised here, but Hal didn’t understand how perilous this life could be. Still, he was right about Kyle being a responsible minder, and maybe it would be acceptable to let Wally have more free time that wasn’t for chores or lessons. 

He looked up when Hal tossed the naked apple into the bowl with a _clank_. “Barry,” he said quietly, “my mama was like that toff. After Pa died, she kept me and my brothers penned up ‘cause she was scared. I spent years tuggin’ at the bit, wanting to be let out free, and when the gate finally opened, I didn’t know what to do. I got led, is what I did. Wally’s a good boy. He don’t deserve that.” He picked up another apple and started peeling again. “‘S’all I’ve got to say.” 

“I’ll ponder on it,” Barry said, and Hal’s answering smile was an acknowledgement and a wordless peace offering all in one. 

It was only later that night -- as Barry lay in the dark watching Hal’s body rise and fall with each slow breath -- that it occurred to him that they’d had their first quarrel. They’d weathered it well enough. Hal’s forgiveness, it seemed, was readily granted, but Barry was still unsettled. It felt as if they’d left something important undone. 

He and Iris hadn’t fought often, but it wasn’t to say they never disagreed at all. They’d mostly argued about inconsequential things, but on a few memorable occasions they’d had a proper quarrel -- one so bad that Iris had gone to stay with her father for a few days. But they had always made up properly. Usually they’d curled up together in bed for a few hours, relearning and reassuring each other until the harsh and hasty words were forgotten. 

That was the difference, Barry thought, as he stared at the implacable wall of Hal’s back. He’d never had a marital argument that had been solved without a single affectionate touch. Barry hadn’t dared to touch, because he knew it wasn’t wanted.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Barry sat up and shifted his legs off the bed as carefully as he could, but Hal, ever the light sleeper, stirred anyway. 

“B’rry?”

“It’s alright. Go back to sleep.” 

Hal did. Barry shrugged on his raggedy old dressing gown and padded out of the bedroom. He checked on Wally first, tiptoeing around the padded bedroll on the other side of the stove that Kyle and Guy slept on now that the shed was full of apples. None of the three woke, though Itty whined when Barry opened the front door. 

He stepped out onto the porch and sat down on the step, tucking the folds of cloth around himself. 

The hell of it was, Barry supposed he’d been a little moonstruck. He’d been flattered that a beautiful young buck like Hal wanted him, and he hadn’t looked far beyond that. But the better they knew each other, the harder it became to put aside how Hal went funny after they made love. He’d turn to stone when Barry tried to hold him, his expression gone faraway. Oh, he’d lie still and allow it, but it was obvious that he didn’t like it. 

At first, Barry had assumed it was simply the newness of it, but as time passed it had become clear that it wasn’t Hal being shy of him. Hal wasn’t shy about anything. He freely slung his arm over Guy’s shoulder and accepted embraces from Wally and Kyle. He touched Barry too -- patting his back or letting their fingers brush as they shared a flask or, one memorable time, dealing him a playful slap across his rear as he’d bent down to pick up Lightning’s saddle. 

But in bed, it was a different beast altogether. Hal allowed Barry’s hands anywhere and everywhere while they were making love, but the instant they’d had their pleasure and Barry tried to be tender with him, they were shrugged away. It stung, knowing that Hal didn’t want any affection from him, that he could welcome Barry’s touch only insofar as it excited him. 

Barry missed being held. He missed having someone to hold. Their argument today had only reminded him how lonely he felt, even with Hal sleeping there next to him, because as much as they got along in almost every other way, Hal’s disinterest was like a craggy canyon spanning between them.

Iris had fit perfectly in his arms. Now, more than he had in years, he desperately missed her hands, how confident and protective they’d been as she’d stroked his hair and kissed his neck and cuddled with him in their bed. He’d felt her love in every touch. 

But Hal wasn’t Iris. No one was like Iris.

He knew that. He’d known that when he made his offer and accepted the terms of the deal. But he was coming to realize that he’d expected. . . well, that he’d hoped. . . . 

Barry sighed, leaning his head back against the porch railing. It didn’t matter what he’d hoped.

***

Neither Guy nor Hal had ever canned fruit before, so Barry agreed to guide them through the whole process. It would make things go faster if they all had a handle on how things worked. 

“Preserves first, and then apple butter,” Barry said, considering his recipe book. “Maybe I’ll make some apple molasses too once the cider’s done. But before we can do anything we have to get these pots scoured out.” 

“What do you clean it with?” Hal asked. He placed the last big cast-iron pot by the stove, having hauled them in from the barn with Guy.

“Lots of hot water and some apple cider vinegar,” Barry said. “There should be a few bottles left in the root cellar. They’re in brown glass, probably on the top shelf. Could you bring one of them up here for me?” 

“Sure.”

Guy went to fetch the water as Barry wiped the pots down with a wet cloth, trying to get as much dust and dirt off as he could. They didn’t look too bad. He always tried to seal them up as best he could when they were in storage, but since they were kept in the barn, sometimes he found bird feathers or mouse droppings in them. Thankfully, there was none of that this year.

Guy came back in with a pair of milk pails, huffing and puffing. He set them down hard enough to send water splashing up over the sides. “Seems to me like this is an awful lotta trouble for a couple jars of jam.” 

Barry mopped up the water with a rag. “It’s easier than running cattle.” 

Guy grunted.

“Got it,” Hal announced, climbing up out of the cellar.

The bottle was the right size and shape, but the label. . . . “Hal, this is malt liquor.” 

“What?” 

“This is malt, not vinegar.” 

Hal looked caught out for an instant and then shrugged. “Must’ve grabbed the wrong one by mistake.”

“You’re kidding,” Guy said. 

“Don’t,” Hal warned, and he took the bottle back. “Here, Bar, I’ll go get the--”

"You ain't told him?" Guy fisted his hands on his hips. “Why? He ain’t gonna give a rip.” 

“Leave it,” Hal growled. 

Barry knew it was time to intercede. “It’s nothing to be ashamed of,” he said.

Hal’s shoulders stiffened and then slumped. “You already knew, huh?”

“I had a notion. It’s not unusual around here, you know. Not every farmer’s son is privileged to have schooling -- or finds it necessary, for that matter. Can you read at all?”

Hal’s mouth twisted. “I know my letters. I can sign my name. I just . . . I don’t know. I had some schooling when I was a little shaver, but after Pa died there was no time. We all had to work if we didn’t want to starve, and it wasn’t so important back then. I never took it up again, is all. Wasn’t good at it either. I like sums, but letters get all twisted around if I look at them too long. I’m simple, I guess. And you’re so fond of books, and you know so many things, and I----”

“Jeezus, Jordan,” Guy interrupted with a laugh. “That’s why? I doubt Allen gives a damn if you can’t recite Billy Shakespeare while he has you ass-up.” 

“Shut your blasted filthy mouth!” Barry snapped. 

Guy gave him a dark look, suddenly seeming to have grown about six inches taller and broader.

Hal’s hand curled tightly around Barry’s arm, pushing him away from Guy and right out the door onto the porch. He kicked the door shut behind them. “Easy now,” he said, with no apparent irony. 

“It isn’t right, him talking to you like that!” Barry said indignantly.

“He don’t mean anything by it,” Hal said, placating, but Barry shrugged off his hand. He didn’t want to be placated. After five months, he’d had it up to about here with Gardner’s crudeness and disrespectful, nasty little jibes. But then he registered the guarded wariness on Hal’s face, and he felt a fool himself. 

“Lord,” he groaned, rubbing his temple. “I’m sorry. I don’t know why my temper’s been running so hot.”

Hal’s posture eased as he smiled. “If you’re hot-tempered, I reckon the rest of us are liable to catch fire at any moment. Barry, you’re about the least hot-tempered fella I’ve ever met. And let’s face it, Guy has a talent for gettin’ under people’s skin. It’s alright.” 

“Well, I don’t like it,” Barry said. “I won't hold grudges, but I wish he’d have the decency to feel sorry for the awful things he says.”

“Take a minute.” Hal patted his shoulder. “I’ll go see if I can find the vinegar this time, and then we can get back to work.” 

Barry dared to catch Hal’s arm gently before he could go. “Hal. You aren’t simple. Some folks have a harder time with book learning, and that’s all there is to it.” 

Hal gazed at him for a few seconds, nodded, and then went back inside. 

An instant later, the door opened again, but it was Guy on the threshold. He strode over to the other side of the porch, jammed one heel up on the railing, folded his arms over his chest, and stared at Barry narrowly. 

“What?” Barry said, none too kindly. He wasn’t in the mood for another go-around. 

“I reckon I oughta clear the air,” Guy said grudgingly. 

“Oh, you do, do you?”

“I ain’t gonna say it twice. I got no apologies for the man I am, Allen, but I maybe crossed a line there, just then. Sometimes I forget you don’t know me like Hal n’ Kyle do. Iff’n I heard somebody else say to him what I said to him, I’d clean their clock first and beg their pardon later. But I get that you don’t understand. I don’t mean him no harm, and he gives as good as he gets. That’s how it is ‘tween us.”

“What’s between you and Hal is your business to sort out. That doesn’t mean I want to hear it.” 

Guy gave him an evaluating look. “That’s the line in the sand?”

“Yes,” Barry said firmly. 

After a moment, Guy shrugged. “Alright. I’ll try to keep a civil tongue in my head -- if it pleases Your Majesty.” He inclined his head sardonically and opened the door. “Well? Why’re you just standin’ there? Are we makin’ your fancy jam or not?”

“Lead the way,” Barry said dryly, and he followed Guy inside. 

***

“I like apples,” Kyle observed in a pensive tone, “but I’m getting tired of them. We picked them, and then we washed them, and then we mashed them up, and then we cooked them, and the house always smells like apples. I reckon the whole farm smells like apples. Everywhere you look, there are apples.”

“I _dream_ about apples,” Wally said, and he flung his arms back dramatically where he lay stretched out on the floor. It startled Itty, who vaulted off of Wally’s stomach and went scurrying over to hide behind Hal’s leg. 

Barry chuckled, stirring the big pot of apples stewed with spices as Hal got the cheesecloth ready. “Give it a few more weeks, boys, and all the canning will be done. You won’t have to look at another apple until this winter, and by then you’ll be wanting them again.” 

“Grab Itty, would you, Kyle?” Hal asked. “I don’t want her gettin’ burned.” 

The kitchen was steaming up something fierce from all the cooking. After some complaining, Kyle and Wally went outside to play jacks on the porch and watch for Guy, who’d ridden to the Kents' ranch to deliver some apple butter. 

With the strained apples set aside to cool, Barry and Hal had a quick lunch of bread and cheese. Hal, at least, wasn’t sick to death of apples yet, and he sneaked a bowl of the slices cooked with cinnamon and nutmeg. 

“Is there anything you reckon Jay might like for a birthday present?” Hal asked as they ate. “He did me a real solid by lettin’ me ride that prime Appaloosa of his. Beautiful creature, and her canter was smoother than butter.”

“I’m sure Jay would appreciate anything. That reminds me. . . “ Barry got up, brushing the breadcrumbs off his trousers as he went into the bedroom. He retrieved the creased envelope from his bureau and brought it out to the table. After dividing the cash inside into two neat piles, he slid one of them across the table to Hal. 

Hal stilled with his fork halfway in his mouth. “What’s this?”

“Your share. The apples have already sold, and Sue paid me upfront for three dozen jars of apple butter and a crate of jam,” Barry said. He refolded the remaining bills and tucked them back in the envelope. Later, he’d put the bulk of it into the empty coffee can where he kept any large sum of cash, which was then hidden in a dark back corner of the root cellar. 

Hal hadn’t made a move to take the money. 

“Your share,” Barry said again, thinking that maybe he hadn’t understood. “You’re my husband. The farm runs as much off your labor as mine now. I’ll warn you, money doesn’t come in too often, but when it does, you’ll have a part of it. We’ll get more once the preserves are done and delivered, and Gold’s always buys up a good portion of the cider. I’ll put aside an allotment for the water pump and handle the grocery purchases for the winter from my share if you’ll give Guy whatever you reckon is a fair percentage for his work from yours -- and Kyle too, if you think it’s appropriate. Does that sound fair?”

Hal was still looking at the mound of bills as if he expected them to catch fire at any moment. “And what do I do with the rest of it?” he asked. 

Barry shrugged. “Whatever you like. There’s no federal bank in Central City any more, but the Dibnys do a bit of banking for us locals if you want it changed out for bonds.” Hal was still looking puzzled. “I don’t expect an accounting,” Barry said, wondering if that was the problem. “You’re not obliged to answer to me about how you spend it. It’s your money.” 

He felt reasonably sure, given past remarks, that this was probably more money than Hal had ever had in his life. Barry would have given it to him anyway, since he’d done the same with Iris, but it seemed important that Hal could access funds without having to ask him. Maybe, in some way, it might make Hal feel more settled, more secure, if he knew that he wasn’t beholden to Barry for everything. 

“How much are you puttin' aside for the pump?” Hal asked finally. 

He did a few quick calculations in his head. “Ten dollars this time, I think. I may have to draw from it if we end up needing to fix the barn roof before summer.” 

Hal fished around for a ten dollar note and pushed it across the table. “Here.” 

“This is your money.” Barry tried to slide it back, but Hal balked, a stubborn jut to his chin. 

“Like you said, it’s equal now. Take it.” A small smile flitted across his lips. “Besides, I want that pump sooner rather than later.” 

***

The town’s main street was busier than a kicked beehive. 

Everyone was dressed in their Sunday best for the fair, setting out whatever fresh crops they had to share and admiring the beautiful paper decorations Sue had put up in the storefront windows. There was a distinct anticipation in the air, the promise of a good time, and Wally was almost dancing with it. When Barry reached down to help him out of the cart, he leapt into Barry’s arms, hugging him around the neck.

“Can we get some lemonade, Uncle Barry?” he asked, and a second later his eyes locked onto a group of children who had gathered in front of the store. “They’re playing charades!” he cried. “Can we play too?”

“Alright,” Barry said, and Wally’s smile was blinding. “You stick close to Kyle and don’t go too far, you hear?”

“Okay!” Wally reached for Kyle’s hand, and they took off running helter-skelter. 

Barry surveyed the rest of the street. The picnic blankets and tables were still being put up. Someone had started up a quilting bee in front of the Dibnys’, and others were marking off a square in the field beside the church for dancing. He asked Hal what he wanted to do first.

“Something smells real good,” Hal said, looking over at the potluck buffet. “I’d be up for eating.” 

Barry agreed eagerly, having already spotted a dish of Ralph’s famous potato salad on the table. 

Hal and Barry filled their plates and found a shady tree to sit under. Guy, however, took his food and made a beeline straight for the porch of the smithy, where rickety card tables had been set up for friendly games of faro and poker. 

Hal rolled his eyes. “Watch him lose every red cent he just earned.”

When Guy caught up with them a half-hour later, he was still in possession of all his cents and was towing a big piebald gelding behind him. 

“Won him straight off, saddle ‘n all,” Guy crowed. “Loser said his name’s Arkillo.”

Hal got up and ran a hand across the horse’s flanks, evaluating. It snorted and kicked out at him with ears pinned, rolling one angry dark eye. “You beef-head, you got yourself cheated, is what you did. This poor old thing is a knacker if I’ve ever seen one. Look here, someone’s taken a whip to him, and he’s sway-backed. He looks ornery besides.” 

“Pshaw! Sure, he ain’t the prettiest, but look at them good strong flanks! He’ll ride well for me. Maybe he just don’t like you.” Guy rubbed the horse’s snout, every inch of him radiating smug satisfaction. “He’s got a spark in his eye. There’s life in him yet.” 

Barry prudently kept his thoughts to himself. They could afford keeping another horse, and at least the big beast was a gelding and less likely to pester Lightning. 

The Garricks arrived just then, and of course Jay had to take a look at the horse. Joan joined them under the shade of the tree, and then the Dibnys carried over their plates. Then Arthur Curry moseyed by to say hello, and Vic and his father Silas stopped to meet Hal and Guy, and soon Barry plumb lost count of how many people came over to introduce themselves. 

Hal was beginning to look a little bewildered. “It’s not that I don’t appreciate folks bein’ friendly,” he said, after Miss Mari and Miss Bea left, “but is there something on my face?”

“You’re new,” Sue said knowingly. “Everybody wants to get some gossip from the newcomer. The day after Ralph and I got married, I had a dozen people stop by for tea so they could take a gander at me.” 

“Can’t blame ‘em for wanting a gander,” Ralph said slyly, and Sue laughed and blushed, batting him on the arm with her fan. 

Hal stretched and patted his stomach. “I need to get up or I’ll fall asleep. What else is there to do?”

“Beetle usually has some contraption of his to show off,” Barry said. “Why don’t we see what he’s got this year?”

This year, it was a great, hulking box of steel and gears and oily pistons with a chute on one end and a basket on the other that purported to be an automatic corn-shucker. Mr. Gold was playing it up like a carnival barker, engaging the small crowd of curious onlookers. Beetle was still tinkering away, making last minute adjustments; he’d put on a nice brocade coat for the occasion, but he was still wearing his goggles and his customary headgear.

“What’s with the antenna hat?” Guy muttered. “Looks like he belongs in a loony bin.”

“He’s a very nice man,” Barry defended. “It’s an. . . . uh. He says it's an intelligence-inducement cap.” 

Hal and Guy stared at him. 

“Loony bin,” Guy said emphatically. 

“Seems like we’re ready, ladies and gents!” Mr. Gold announced. He hooked his thumbs into the pockets of his bright yellow waistcoat, rocking back on his heels with a satisfied air. “This marvel of modern engineering can shuck two dozen ears of corn in the time it would take a man to do one. Come on up, don’t miss it now!” He waved a cob of corn overhead and then placed it in the chute with a flourish. “All a fellow has to do is put the corn in like so, and then he can sit back and watch the cob slip out of its husk like a greased pig. And I’ll remind you all, this fine invention is available for purchasing for a very reasonable price indeed! Beetle, on your mark!”

Beetle pulled a lever, and the machine sputtered noisily to life, coughing out a plume of oily smoke. The corn shot out of its husk like a greased pig, alright -- and it sailed past the basket and straight through one of the saloon’s windows. There was an explosion of shattering glass and then raucous hoots of laughter from the crowd. 

Mr. Gold’s shoulders slumped. 

Beetle pushed his googles up onto his forehead. “Chin up, Booster. That’s not as far as it went last time!”

“Excuse me,” a soft voice behind Barry said. It belonged to Miss Tora, the seamstress, who was looking as pretty as a daisy in an embroidered dress that she’d likely sewed herself. Her hair, so blonde as to be nearly white, was braided up in a crown on her head. “I hope I am not being rude,” she said, holding out her gloved hand to Guy, “but you are Mister Gardner, yes?”

Guy flushed up nearly as red as his hair, but he stuck out his hand gruffly. “Yeah.”

“This is Miss Olafsdotter,” Barry said as the pair shook, Miss Tora’s dainty lace glove all but disappearing in Guy’s fist. “It seems you already know who Guy is.” 

“People have little to do but talk to me during fittings, especially when there is someone new in town,” Miss Tora explained. “The musicians are going to play now, and I thought you might care to dance, Mr. Gardner.” 

“With you? Well, now. . . ahem. I mean, that’s . . . . I’d like that fine, ma’am!” Looking rather thunderstruck, Guy held out his arm and let Miss Tora lead him over to the square. 

Barry watched, very much amused, as Guy awkwardly turned Miss Tora in clumsy circles, but she didn’t seem to mind, and before long she was guiding him patiently through the steps. She looked like a tiny wood sprite, dancing around Guy’s bulk. 

He’d expected an off-color comment from Hal, but instead Hal seemed pleased. “Ain’t that something,” he marveled. “She seems sweet.”

“I don’t know her well -- she and Miss Bea came up here together a year or so ago -- but I’ve never heard an unkind word about her. Her people are from Norway, I think.” 

“Hmm.” Hal pushed off from the saloon railing as the crowd dispersed around them. “What say we take a spin ourselves?”

“I’m not much for dancing anymore,” Barry demurred. “You go enjoy yourself, though.” 

Hal shrugged. “Suit yourself.” 

A few minutes later he was out on the grass and twirling around with Sue. Hal was a good dancer, needing no direction, and before long he had Sue laughing gaily at something he’d said. Barry sat down on the steps of the Assay Office to watch the revelers and listen to the music, lost in his own thoughts, until Wally flopped down on his knee with an exaggerated sigh. 

He ran a hand through Wally’s hair. “Do I want to know how you got these sticks in there?”

“We played hide-and-seek. I hid in a tree, but Garth found me.” 

“At least you didn’t crawl in a rosebush. Did you have fun?” 

“I guess so.” 

It was such a contrast to the boy’s enthusiasm of that morning that Barry was obliged to investigate. “You guess so?”

“I think he likes Donna,” Wally said mournfully.

Barry picked out the last twig and flicked it away. “Who, Kyle? Kyle’s allowed to like other people.” 

“But what if he doesn’t want to play with me anymore?”

“He’s your brother now. Of course he will.”

Wally was quiet, rubbing the toes of his boots into the sand. “Donna and Garth like Kyle better than me.” 

“Wally,” Barry said gently, “Donna and Garth are nearer to Kyle’s age. It’s natural that they would have more in common. It doesn’t mean they don’t like you too. You were all playing together, weren’t you?”

“Yeah,” Wally said thoughtfully, and he seemed more cheerful after that. Barry took him to get some food, and they went back to the tree to lie in the grass and talk with the Garricks and Ralph. 

It was nearing twilight when they finally left town. They hadn’t gone a mile before Kyle and Wally fell asleep, curled up in the wagon bed. Before long Guy was snoring too. Hal climbed over to sit on the bench with Barry, but they rode in comfortable silence. Hal was humming under his breath, some snatch of a tune that had been playing earlier, and Barry listened as he guided Lightning home. 

It had been a fine day. 

***

The sticky September heat finally broke on a quiet Sunday night, and it broke with a wild ferocity. The near-continuous crack of thunder was enough to wake Barry from a deep sleep. He lay there for a minute, listening to water beat against the roof and the windows, the wind driving the rain like bullets. He rolled over to find Hal already wide awake. 

“Can’t sleep?” Barry murmured. 

“Not a chance. I never heard thunder like this before.” 

A lightning strike lit up the whole window as bright as high noon, followed swiftly by a roll of thunder that shook the cabin on what felt like its very foundations. Itty whimpered piteously from the kitchen. 

“This isn’t unusual for a late summer squall.” As a boy, he’d begged to go outside and watch the lightning sizzle across the sky. Thunderstorms had always filled him with a certain awe at their terrible beauty, the awareness of being a small speck in something much greater. A lightning storm -- now _that_ was true power. “They’re a wonder to watch.” 

“If you say so,” Hal said dubiously. 

The bedroom door creaked open. Wally’s tearful voice was barely a whisper. “Uncle Barry?” 

Barry sat up. “Did the racket wake you?” 

“Uh-huh. Can I sleep with you? Pretty please.” 

Barry put out a hand to help him climb up onto the bed as Hal shifted back to make room. Wally crawled over, a bony knee digging into Barry’s belly before he burrowed down right between them. He turned his face into Barry’s arm, their damp skin sticking together, and made an unhappy noise as another bolt cracked across the sky. 

“Thunder’s nothing to be afraid of,” Barry said, smoothing down the rumpled collar of Wally’s nightgown. “Nothing but the air and the heat, that’s all.” 

Wally cuddled closer. After a few minutes, there came another tap on the door. Barry craned his neck up from the pillow to see Kyle peeking sheepishly around the wood. “You alright, son?” 

“The thunder is really loud,” Kyle said nervously. “And Wally was gone.” 

Silently, Hal wriggled over, patting the space on the mattress he’d made. The four of them spent a minute jostling their limbs around so they could all fit, tugging back and forth until no stray feet were poking out off the edge of the bed. And that, of course, was when Itty decided to leap atop the pile, clambering over them all with her clumsy paws to a chorus of groans and _oofs_ before settling on Hal’s chest.

“There,” Hal declared, pushing Kyle’s elbow down so it wasn’t buried in his kidney. “Snug as a bug in a rug.” 

Barry had started to drift off again when a thump and an angry curse came from the doorway. “What the _hell_ kind of plague-ass rainstorm _is_ this? You hearin’ this, Jordan?! Jeezus Christ, it sounds like Satan’s takin’ a piss on the Pearly Gates, is what it sounds like.” 

“He’s not allowed in the bed,” Barry said wearily, and Hal’s raspy laugh warmed him down to his toes.

***

“That was tasty,” Barry said appreciatively, licking the dusted sugar off his fingers. “What did you say that was again?”

“Mandelbrot,” Hal said. “Mama’s recipe. She usually blanched the almonds, though.” He finished the rest of his own cookie and then kicked his bare feet where he was wading in the creek. “I reckon I’ll take a swim.”

“I don’t know if Lightning will appreciate you riding her wet.”

“I’ll have plenty of time to dry. We don’t have to go back to the house for a good while yet. I told Guy not to expect us until suppertime.” Hal stepped back onto the grassy bank and started stripping off his clothes with no to-do, tossing them in a heap. “You joinin’ me or not?”

“The creek’s cold.”

“So?”

“I’ll stay nice and dry, thank you,” Barry said. He knew he was staring, but Hal didn’t seem to mind -- he was encouraging it, in fact, if the way he had his hands propped on his naked hips was any indication. 

“C’mon, Bar. Don’t make me swim alone.” 

“I’d rather nap,” Barry said, taken by a little imp of mischief. 

“Sounds like something a yellow-bellied coward would say,” Hal taunted. 

Barry wasn’t so old and decrepit yet that the challenge didn’t light a spark of competition in his blood. Almost before his shirt and britches puddled in this grass, he was running at Hal, tackling him around the waist to fling him into the creek, but Hal was as quick as a snake, hooking his leg around Barry’s hip. They hit the water with a mighty splash. 

They surfaced together, hollering at the cold. Hal slithered out of his grasp, swimming swiftly away. Barry chased after him, and they played keep-away until they were too tired to go on. Their raucous splashing subsided as they bobbed in the current, soaking up the fading sunlight. When the chill of the water started to go from refreshing to uncomfortable, they crawled out, shivering and giggling like a pair of schoolboys. 

Barry was so caught up in the moment that Hal’s kiss nearly startled him. He kissed back readily, surprised by how much he’d missed it. Now that Guy and Kyle were living in the house too, there weren’t many opportunities for lovemaking, no matter how furtive. With the chaos of the harvest, they hadn’t had the chance for nearly three weeks.

“Now I see why you wanted to come along on that delivery,” Barry said breathlessly when their lips parted. 

“I know an opportunity when I see one.” Hal broke away and went over to where Lightning was grazing. He opened up her saddle bag and produced a large blanket, spreading it out under the shade of a big oak. 

“You packed a blanket?” Hal’s seduction obviously hadn’t been a spur-of-the-moment impulse. 

“And some slick too. But if you’d rather do it in the grass and get ant bites on your pecker, be my guest.”

“You do have a masterful way with words.”

“That’s me, a regular Don Joo-awn.” Hal sat down with the bottle of mineral oil in hand and patted the blanket invitingly. Barry resisted a little longer, still feeling impish. 

“Really? In front of God and country?” 

Hal rolled his eyes, stretching out on the blanket in a blatant display of wet golden skin. “Oh, don’t tell me you never did the deed outside. And if you do, I’ll know it’s a damn dirty lie.” 

Barry actually _had_ made love outdoors before -- Iris had been especially fond of picnicking in the orchard, and more times than not they’d ended their meal with clothes strewn all over -- but he wasn’t about to give Hal any fuel for teasing. “I don’t kiss and tell.” 

Hal grinned. “Well, I do.” He crossed his arms over his head, and despite himself, Barry found his eyes wandering down -- no doubt exactly like Hal intended. “Strangest place I ever tupped anybody was in a laundry chute.”

The laugh burst out of Barry’s mouth before he could stop it. “A _what_?”

Hal looked delighted by the reaction he’d gotten, and he crooked his finger like a fisherman reeling in a hooked trout. “C’mere and I’ll tell you the story,” he purred. 

Hal was a good storyteller, even if most of his stories were malarkey, and Barry found himself so cut up he could scarce catch his breath as Hal explained how he and Old Ferris’s daughter had, through a series of unlikely mishaps, ended up _in flagrante delicto_ in the launderer’s cabinet. The yarn was so naughty and outrageous that, by the end of it, Barry had plumb forgot that they were sitting naked as the day they were born in the middle of an open field. 

Hal ended his tale with a kiss, coaxing Barry to lie down, and Barry let himself enjoy the sensation: the hot sun on his back, the smell of the grass, the fresh air on their damp skin, and the coarseness of the wool blanket against his elbows and knees as he crouched over Hal and took him in his mouth. Over the past few months he’d grown more confident, and Hal’s body was no longer such an intimidating mystery. Now he was comfortable enough to tease, keen on coaxing out more of those breathy sighs and noises of approval. 

Before long, Hal was pushing gently at his shoulders, urging him off. 

“Feels too nice,” he panted. “You’re gettin’ good at that.”

Barry couldn’t help but feel proud. Hal craned up to kiss him hard, guiding him onto his back so he could straddle his hips. Barry stared up the leaves overhead, trying not to embarrass himself as Hal opened the bottle and got ready. 

“Good God,” he heard himself groan when Hal finally reached back to hold him still. He clutched the blanket as Hal slowly eased himself down; he was breathing hard too, biting his lip as he took Barry inside. 

It was a thrill knowing that Hal had planned it, that he’d packed the saddlebags and brought the blankets and oil, all with the intention of doing this. Hal was a sight to see, sun-browned skin slicked with sweat, his reddened lips parting on a sigh as he rocked himself toward completion. Barry clutched at the lean, shifting muscles of his thighs and fought to hold himself back. It was a mighty chore, what with how tightly Hal’s body squeezed him, how huskily Hal moaned, his palms braced against Barry’s chest. His brown eyes were so dark, watching Barry intently. 

It was disappointing to plunge over the edge because he knew by now what came next. The pleasure was sweet, tingling from his chest to his toes, and he watched hungrily as Hal shouted his own release, but then it was over, and their closeness would be too. Sure enough, Hal shifted off him and stretched out the blanket with enough distance between them that their skin wouldn’t even brush. 

Barry lay there with slick drying on his thighs, and he wondered sourly if Hal was going to go to sleep without saying a word. Well, he wasn’t going to stick around and stew, he decided, so he got up to clean off. His legs were as shaky as a newborn lamb’s. 

Hal turned his head to look at him, smiling drowsily.

“Reckon should have saved our swim for afterwards,” he mused.

“I’ll take another dip,” Barry said. It was hard to feel resentful when Hal looked so content, all his rough edges softened by pleasure. “You coming?”

“Give me a few minutes,” Hal said, with a quiet laugh. “You wore me out.”

Barry left him to his rest. He took his time washing up, letting the sun dry his skin before he got dressed. Before he walked back up the bank, he gathered Hal’s discarded clothes and shook them out for any stray critters. 

Hal had fallen asleep, sprawled out with Barry’s straw hat over his face. Barry shook his head -- reckless, to be sleeping out here naked -- and he reached out to shake him awake when his eyes were caught by the mark on the inside of Hal’s right leg, near his flank. He’d felt the raised, toughened patch of skin before and seen glimpses of it in bed, but he’d never gotten a good look at it in clear light like this.

It took him longer than it should have to realize what he was seeing. At first he thought it was a birthmark, or a poorly-done tattoo, but then his eyes registered clean, uniform edges, and he knew what it was at once. This was, after all, cow country, and Barry had lived among cattlemen his whole life. 

That was a cattle brand on Hal’s thigh. 

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. "Happiness is the harvest of a quiet mind." -- Joseph Murphy
> 
> 2\. Mandelbrot is a Jewish cookie with a texture similar to biscotti.


	5. Snowblind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Winters on the prairie are harsh and cruel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter warnings: language, animal death, children in peril, vomiting, period-typical sexist and racist attitudes, minor injury, and brief sexual content. (Boy, this one's a doozy.)

* * *

_Snowblind_

* * *

* * *

“Uncle Barry, look at me!”

Barry obligingly doffed his hat and waved it. Wally beamed as he bounced in the saddle; in his excitement, the reins slipped from his grasp. 

“Careful, chickabiddy,” Hal chided. He lifted one hand from Lightning’s harness to wrap Wally’s fingers back around the reins. “What’s the first rule of riding?”

“Don’t let go of the reins,” Wally parroted, and he tightened his fists around the leather straps. “Sorry.” 

“Attaboy. Mind your seat. We’re gonna give her another turn, okay?”

Wally’s face came over with sober determination. “I’m ready.” 

“Alright.” Hal stepped to the side. “Now how’d you ask Lightning to start walkin’?”

“Please, ma’am?” Wally said cheekily, and Hal laughed. 

“Cute. Try again.” 

“Squeeze her with both legs on her sides and lean forward.” 

“With your chest or your hips?”

“Hips,” Wally said confidently. 

“That’s right. Go ahead and show me.” 

With great care, Wally shifted forward and pressed his legs in. It probably didn’t feel like much to Lightning, but she was an intelligent, sensitive horse, and she moved forward in a slow amble. 

“That’s it.” Hal kept pace beside them as they turned in a circle around the paddock, one hand at Lightning’s neck to grab the bit if need be, and Barry forced himself to relax. It had been mighty daunting at first, watching Wally clamber up on such a big, heavy animal, but it was getting easier as time passed. 

“Remember to loosen your legs now, Wally. She’s already got the idea, so don’t signal to her 'til you want her to do somethin’ else. It’ll confuse her otherwise.” 

“Okay.” When they reached the far end of the paddock, Wally stiffened his back, leaned forward again, and drew the reins taut as he declared, “Whoa, Lightning!” Lightning came to a graceful halt, her legs squared and head calmly forward. 

“I think that was the smoothest stop you’ve done so far,” Hal said, sounding pleased.

“Well done!” Barry called. He smiled as his boy flushed up with pride. 

Wally was responding beautifully to his riding lessons. Even if he got ahead of himself sometimes, he went through his paces without a single solitary word of complaint. Hal spent day after day drilling him mercilessly on how to sit on the saddle, how to mount and dismount, how to land if he was bucked or fell off the horse, how to tack up properly, and how to cue Lightning with his heels and hands and posture. Wally was showing a patient focus that Barry had never seen from him before, all his boundless energy channeled into mastering what Hal had to teach him. 

“Can I start walking again?” Wally pointed over to where Guy and Kyle had come out of the barn; they were leading Arkillo to the secondary paddock to dry out in the sun after his rub-down. “I want to show Kyle how good I can ride.” 

“Sure,” Hal said easily. “Ho, Kyle! C’mere a minute, kiddo.”

Kyle immediately perched himself up on the fence, and after he’d gotten Arkillo settled, Guy swaggered over as well. Wally demonstrated his new skills to his audience, bolstered on by their whistles and claps. 

“Pretty soon we can go riding together,” Kyle mused as Wally halted Lightning right in front of him. He craned forward to rub Lightning’s nose. “Maybe we can go to visit Missus Garrick for tea.”

“That ain’t happenin’,” Guy said instantly. 

Hal chimed in with a more diplomatic, “That’ll take a _lot_ more practice, boys. You’re both tenderfoots. You’ve got heaps to learn before you can take a horse out yourselves. Got it?”

They grudgingly agreed, and Wally returned to his practicing. Guy wandered off to finish grooming Arkillo. Kyle, it seemed, soon tired of watching Wally ride in circles. 

“Is it lunchtime yet?” he asked Barry, swinging his heels idly against the fencing. The ends of his trousers sat at least a full inch above his skinny ankles, and Barry made an idle note to let out the hems again. Kyle was sprouting up like a beanstalk lately. 

“Near about,” Barry said. “What do you want to eat?”

Four different voices gave him four different answers. Chuckling, Barry told them to duke it out amongst themselves and send somebody to tell him what the winner wanted, and then he went back inside to light up the stove. 

As soon as he got through the door, an unfamiliar sound caught his ear. Something was ticking. He turned in a circle, confused, until he spotted his father’s cuckoo clock hanging on the wall. The glass clock-face had been polished up, its hands reattached, and the wood casing was glued back together. Even the delicate chains that held the counterweights had been repaired. 

Barry stared for a minute and then reached out to wind it forward to the nearest hour. Sure enough, the little hinged door opened with a squeak. The painted bird peeked its head out as the clock chimed with its cheerful, distinctive _cuckoo-cuckoo_. 

He hadn’t realized -- not until he stood there rewinding the clock again and again, feeling a mite choked up -- how much he’d missed that sound. When Wally had broken it, it had seemed so ludicrous to grieve over a clock that Barry hadn’t troubled himself to feel the heirloom’s loss. But now the sound seemed a precious thing indeed. It had been the backdrop to his childhood, to his mother’s near-ubiquitous singing, a cue that supper was ready on the table or that it was time for him to be tucked snugly into bed. 

Hal hadn’t made a mention of the clock in weeks. Barry had assumed that he’d lost interest in it or found that it was too ruined to salvage after all. He must have been working on it in secret, somewhere that Barry wouldn’t see him at it. He must have wanted it to be a surprise. It certainly was. He hadn’t really thought Hal would be able to fix it. Even Beetle had shaken his head when Barry had brought the pieces for him to take a look at. 

Yet Hal had managed it, somehow. It must have taken hours of work. 

_Now, see there?_ a persistent inner voice chided. _He fixed it just for_ **_you_** _. Do you mean to keep doubting him?_

Barry had been trying so hard not to think about that day by the river, and for the most part he’d succeeded. He was able to put it aside during his waking hours, when there was plenty else to occupy his mind. In quiet moments it intruded unbidden, the memory of how that brand had looked on Hal’s skin. 

At the time, his first reaction had been speechless horror. He’d blinked and looked again, but the circle of knobbly pinkish-brown scars hadn’t disappeared. The wound was healed over and old; the thin, fragile skin of Hal’s inner thigh had obviously been deeply seared. It seemed impossible that Hal could have done it to himself -- a burn like that would have been excruciating, placed as it was on such a tender stretch of flesh. The pain would be liable to make a man faint before he could make the mark take.

Crouched there in the grass, the only conclusion that Barry could reach then was that someone had done this to Hal. But why? Holding a person down to brand them, that was a hateful, deliberate act -- more than that, a _cruel_ one.

Who had hated Hal so much that they’d been willing to do it? 

It wasn’t as if Barry hadn’t heard stories of barbaric frontier justice in the more lawless parts of the country, though half of them were probably taradiddles. Hal, by his own admission, had been a wanderer, and Barry knew so little of his past. It was possible that Hal had gotten himself in trouble, and the brand had been a punishment. Cattle-rustling was the most obvious culprit, given the nature of the wound. It wasn’t beyond the realm of plausibility to imagine that an angry rancher, in the heat of the moment, might have taken one of his own branding irons to a captured thief, but that didn’t seem right either. It didn’t fit with who Barry knew Hal to be. He couldn’t conceive of what Hal might have done to deserve such brutality. 

It had instantly crossed his mind to demand answers. It would be his right, as Hal’s husband, to know if there was some danger or misdeed in his past that could pose a threat to their reputation or even their family’s safety. He could have woken Hal up right that instant and forced him to give an explanation. 

But he hadn’t. 

Even in the first flush of shock, he knew, deep-down, that if he pushed, Hal would leave. He didn’t know why he knew -- only that he did. And immediately after that conviction had settled in his mind, he’d realized that he desperately wanted Hal to stay. 

So he’d gathered himself together and sat there waiting, his mind awhirl. When Hal woke from his nap, they’d redressed and packed up their things and gone back home. Barry hadn’t said a word, and Hal hadn’t appeared to realize his mistake or, for that matter, shown any awareness that anything was amiss. He obviously hadn’t intended that Barry should ever see the scar, though that he thought he’d be able to hide it was a little incredible. 

It plain didn’t add up. The man who shared Barry’s bed wasn’t a criminal. He wasn’t greedy and grasping and willing to take whatever he could get. Hal had been reluctant to accept his duly-earned share of the harvest money. He didn’t like being beholden to anyone, and beyond having clothes on his back and food to eat, he didn’t seem to care about possessions. If he’d had bad intentions at all, he could have easily fleeced Barry out of everything he could and run. But Hal had stayed. 

He was a kind husband. He never struck Barry in anger or used him roughly. He was good with children, and Wally thought the world of him. He had the love and loyalty of Kyle and Guy. He was embarrassed by his lack of education. He liked to stargaze when the nights were clear. One of his first purchases with his money had been a bowl especially for Itty to eat from. He took meticulous care of a dead man’s ring. When he woke in the mornings, he was soft and sleepy-eyed and quiet until he’d had his first mug of coffee. 

He’d fixed the cuckoo clock in secret and hung it on the wall without a word, without any ceremony, because he’d clearly believed it was important to Barry. 

It didn’t make a lick of sense. 

Slowly, Barry had begun to accept that he might not get his answers anytime soon. If he demanded an explanation and their marriage dissolved, Hal might end up back in the hands of the person who had done this to him. They might harm him again, or worse. That thought was intolerable. 

No, the story couldn’t be prised out by force, lest Barry break something irreparably in the process. It was his hope that Hal would tell him of his own volition once he felt more settled. They’d only been married a half-year, after all. Attempting to ferret out who had hurt him and why might erode away whatever bonds tethered them -- and only not them, but Wally too. If Hal left, Guy and Kyle would go with him. It would break Wally’s heart clean in half to lose them all. And Barry. . . well, he’d grown used to having Hal beside him. It would be mighty difficult to go back to the way things were before. 

The simple truth of it was, he trusted Hal, even if that trust wasn’t mutual. If living with this secrecy was the price of keeping him, Barry was willing to pay it. 

“Uncle Barry!”

Wally and Kyle tumbled through the door in a pile of gangly limbs. 

“Hal says I get to pick what’s for lunch because I did so good today!” Wally crowed. “Can we have beans and toast and sausages?”

“We had sausage for breakfast,” Barry sighed, but he was already reaching for a pan to fry them up in. At least Wally hadn’t asked for a lunch of cookies and jam. “Alright. But we’re having some greens to go along with it all. That sound like a fair shake?”

Wally pulled a face, but he said, “Okay,” albeit in a grudging tone.

“Do you want some help, Barry?” Kyle offered. 

“Sure. Can you fetch some sausages from the cellar? Bring up a jar of apple butter too, please.” 

Kyle hoisted up the cellar door and hopped down the ladder, humming to himself. Itty whimpered down at him, unhappy about being left upstairs until Wally came over to pet her consolingly. 

“Uncle Barry?”

“Yes?” The fire wasn’t building up as hot as he would like; he adjusted the potbelly stove’s flue before shoveling in extra kindling. He’d need to buy more coal the next time he went into town for supplies.

“When do you think I can learn to ride really fast? I want to ride one of Jay’s horses.”

“It’ll be a while, Wally. You’ll have to be patient.” He latched the cast-iron door and waited a moment to see if the kindling caught. “There. I’ll tell you what, though, if it’s alright with Jay, we can ride double on one of his racers. We’ll go out for a gallop sometime.”

Wally seemed pleased with that. He pulled out one of the kitchen chairs and sat so he could watch Barry cook. He fussed occasionally about Kyle being allowed to help cook when he wasn’t, but he knew that being around the open fire was absolutely forbidden, so it wasn’t more than the occasional grumble. “Did you see me put the saddle on by myself?”

Barry turned back to the stove to hide his smile. Hal had put the saddle on, as it was far too heavy for Wally to lift, let alone reach Lightning’s back at his height, but he had buckled all the straps correctly without any direction. “I did,” he said. “You did a fine job.” 

“Hal says I’m a born horseman,” Wally boasted. He picked up Itty to put her in his lap, or tried to. She’d been growing like a weed and was big enough now that she hardly fit, her whole back end dangling off the side of the chair -- though neither boy nor dog seemed to care a whit. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t have to work really hard to get better and treat Lightning like a proper lady, because horses have their own minds.” 

Barry nodded, letting a slab of butter sizzle on the hot pan before he laid thick slices of bread across it. “I think that’s good advice to remember, Wally. No two horses are exactly alike, so you have to learn to listen to them and pay attention to how they respond to you. They’re just like people that way.”

“That’s what Hal says.” 

_Hal says, Hal says_ , Barry thought fondly. Well, he would much rather Wally say that than ‘Guy says’. 

  
  


***

Kyle’s eleventh birthday fell on a crisp Tuesday in early October, just as the dried-up leaves were beginning to wither off their branches. 

In anticipation of this august occasion, Hal had enlisted Sue Dibny’s help in ordering from her catalog for a special present. For his part, Barry had requested the recipe for Joan’s poppyseed cake, of which Kyle was especially fond. 

On that Tuesday morning, he and Hal rose early to bake the cake, and Guy had gone out to the shed to fetch the packet of colored artist’s pastels that Hal had ordered. The heavenly smell woke Wally, who came to investigate, and he happily helped Barry decorate the finished cake with icing sugar and a handful of fresh blackberries. 

It was mighty hard to convince Wally not to go wake Kyle the instant everything was ready, so eager was he to see Kyle’s reaction to his birthday gifts; fortunately, Kyle woke on his own not too long after. 

As expected, he was delighted by everything. His eyes went wide when he ripped the butcher’s paper off his new pastels, and they were barely able to convince him to look at his other presents before he ran off to fetch some paper to try them out. Wally’s gift was a bag of Kyle’s favorite candies, bought with his own pocket money. Guy, with a gruff sort of ceremony, presented Kyle with a rosary of hand-whittled beads and a wooden cross. 

“I’m surprised he didn’t catch on fire, carvin’ that,” Hal said under his breath, and Barry stifled a laugh.

The poppyseed cake was sliced up into generous pieces and enjoyed by all for breakfast. They passed a pleasant, lazy morning outdoors, lounging around on the porch and amusing themselves. Wally was tossing around a stick for Itty to fetch, and Kyle was drawing industriously, a slate serving as his easel. Barry had a stack of old Metropolis broadsheets he’d gotten from Ralph, so he worked his way through them, reading aloud any tidbits of news he thought might interest Hal and Guy. 

Lovely as their leisure was, there were still chores, and the work of keeping a farm was never done. Guy got up first to check on the animals, uninterested in the article Barry was reading about a steamboat accident. He stretched and groaned, scratching at his belly. 

“Time for feedin’ and waterin’, I reckon,” he yawned. “Kyle, help me carry in some water for the horses.”

“Aw, it’s his birthday,” Hal complained. 

“And? Don’t mean he can’t carry a pail.” Guy bent over the side of the porch to look at the boy’s paper. “Here, now, what’re you. . . . “ He petered off abruptly.

Kyle hadn’t appeared to have even heard them; his face was a still picture of concentration as he plied his pencils and the new pastels. “Her hair doesn’t look right,” the boy said absently. 

Curious, Barry leaned over to see a sketch of a woman’s face. He had colored in the long red hair first, done up in ringlets. 

“A little more red, a little less brown,” Guy said quietly. “A few shades darker ‘n mine.” 

Kyle nodded, reaching for the red pastel. “I’ll help with the water. Can I have a minute to finish?”

“Never you mind,” Guy said, and one rough hand reached up to stroke through Kyle’s dark locks. “You keep workin’. I’ll take care of it.”

Hal declared loudly that he needed some bait if he was going to face down all the starving, ferocious hens who wanted their late breakfast before he scooped up Wally and sprinted off to the chicken coop. Wally’s squeals of laughter and Itty’s excited barking trailed behind them. Barry chuckled to himself, turning the broadsheet over to read the last page before he saw to his own work.

A small advertisement at the top caught his eye. 

_SYMPOSIUM TO BE HELD AT UNIVERSITY OF METROPOLIS APR. 22-25_

_Esteemed lecturer Professor M. Holt, formerly of Howard University, to present papers on physics at Annual Scientific Symposium. Open to interested public. Direct ticket inquiries to Mr. Ray Palmer, Prof., University of Metropolis._

Barry had attended the Symposium only once, accompanying his father. He had been twelve years old and brimming with excitement and anxiety at the prospect of his first visit to Metropolis. His mother had sewn him a new shirt so that he could look respectable and feel more confident among all the scholars and older students. He’d been in awe of the crowd and sat quietly next to his father through three days of paper presentations and seminar discussions. 

It had been a formative experience. He had believed, in the innocent way that children do, that his father was the smartest person in the world; watching his father take on the role of pupil and marvel at the discoveries of others had made a deep impression. It had seemed to Barry that these men of science knew everything, and it sparked in his young mind a desire to know what they knew -- to understand the world and all its mysterious processes, to learn the hows and whys of everything. 

He’d left Metropolis that week determined to come back as a university student himself, so that someday he could stand on the stage and present a paper of his own. 

Barry folded the broadsheet over but hesitated to add it to the stack for kindling. After a moment’s contemplation, he carefully ripped the advertisement out and tucked it in his pocket.

  
  


***

Having a drink at the Kents’ farmhouse meant downing one of Mrs. Kent’s herbal concoctions, and Barry couldn’t truthfully say he enjoyed it much. The whole family swore by her homemade simples and tonics, which were intended to be healthful and keep a body in a state of vim and vigor. Whether that was true or not was hard to say -- certainly Clark was the picture of health -- but depending upon the brew, their taste spanned from mildly grassy to mouth-puckeringly dreadful. 

Today, Mrs. Kent had crafted an iced tea infused with a special mixture of lemongrass vinegar, sassafras, and a dash of bitters, and it might have been almost palatable if Barry had been able to hold his nose. He sipped at it politely as he sat in the shade of the Kents’ front porch with her and Clark. 

“Things have settled down, at least,” Mrs. Kent was saying. “I thought Jonathan was going to work himself into a conniption, he was that upset about losing Blue.” 

Barry perked up in his chair. “What happened to Blue?” Big Blue was Mr. Kent’s prize bull, a massive, docile old Longhorn that had fathered an impressive number of calves all across the county. 

Clark groaned. “The paddock door was unlocked, and Blue and six steers got out. It took us a week to find ‘em all. One of them broke its leg -- we figure it must have stepped into a rabbit-hole or somesuch.” 

“That’s a real shame, but I’m glad that you got Blue back alright. When did this happen?” He hadn’t heard of any trouble at the Kents’ place, and when animals went missing, word usually spread fast so all the neighbors could keep an eye peeled for them.

“Three weeks ago, wasn’t it?” Mrs. Kent mused. 

“Right before Lex left town,” Clark said, and he sounded very tired. Barry peered at him more closely, concerned. He’d been awfully quiet so far, letting his ma do most of the talking, and he’d lost the thread of conversation several times already. It wasn’t like Clark to be so distracted. 

“Honey,” Mrs. Kent murmured, “we can’t go around makin’ accusations.” 

“Ma, you know he did it. He didn’t like Pa tellin’ him no about leasing out the corn field.” 

“Was he pestering you about selling again?” Barry asked, indignant. The very idea of Luthor trying to strong-arm old Mr. and Mrs. Kent was an outrage.

“No more than usual,” Mrs. Kent said, patting Barry’s hand. “Don’t fret about us, dearie. It’s just we said we wouldn’t sell, and now he’s gotten the idea into his head to get us to lease instead. Answer’s still no, of course. It’d be plumb foolish to cut up the land like that.” She gave Barry’s fingers a squeeze before picking up her glass again. “Now don’t you get tricked either, Barry. Mister Luthor’s got this Wayne fellow on his side now, and he’s been makin’ offers of his own.”

“At Lex’s urging,” Clark said grimly. “He won’t get what he wants this time. I wrote a letter---”

“Oh, Clark.”

“Ma, please. It was the right thing to do.” He looked at Barry with a stubborn jut to his square jaw. “I wrote a letter to Mister Wayne. Lois tells me he’s wintering with Lex in Metropolis, stayin’ as a guest in his mansion. I explained to him Lex’s history here, and what he’s been tryin’ to do. I told him how Lex’s company works their laborers half to death and doesn’t pay them fair wages. If Lex is tryin’ to sweeten the pot and get Wayne’s money to back him, I’m sure he hasn’t told Wayne the truth about how he runs his business. He might be as deceived as we were about the kind of man Lex is, and if we tell him the truth, he can pull out of any agreements they’ve made.” 

Barry met Mrs. Kent’s eyes, and he read his own doubt in her face. Men like Wayne didn’t amass their fortunes because they were good and kind and fair -- they rose to the top on the backs of other men. They were cutthroat. They were cold, or careless. They had to be to survive in their conniving world of alliances and bartering and back-room deals. 

Clark noticed their glances, and there was no mistaking the determined glint that appeared in his eyes. Easygoing as he was, he was a man of conviction, and woe betide anybody who tried to tell him that wrong was right and right was wrong. “Well, I intend to send it. If Wayne thinks it’s funny and tells Lex, that’s no skin off my nose -- Lex already knows how I feel about his behavior. But if Wayne’s a decent man who’s been taken in by the goods that Lex is peddlin’, he deserves to have a fair shake to get himself out before he’s in too deep.” 

“I suppose you’re right,” Mrs. Kent told him, and her expression was equal parts pride and sadness. 

“Well,” Barry said uncomfortably, “I suppose I ought to get that beef I came for and get out of you folks’ hair.” He forced himself to finish his drink and set the empty glass aside. “Thank you kindly for the tea, Mrs. Kent. It was, er, refreshing.” 

Clark brought him out to their smokehouse to fetch the salted venison and sides of dried beef that Barry had ordered. Barry helped him wrap them up and load them into the cart -- not that Clark needed the help. Even so, he could see that his neighbor was still preoccupied and not at all his usual cheerful self. 

“Is it bothering you so much?” Barry finally ventured. “If you really think Luthor is a threat, or that he means to do your family harm, you ought to go to Sheriff Prince, Clark.” 

Clark looked taken aback. “Huh? Oh, no, I don’t reckon Lex would go so far. He’s too proud for common thuggery. No, we’re alright, Barry.”

“But something’s troubling you. You know I’m always willing to lend an ear.” 

“It’s not me I’m worried about. It’s Diana.” 

This time Barry was the one who was scratching his head. It appeared to him that nothing much ever seemed to bother the sheriff, or confound her. He hadn’t heard whispers of any brewing trouble or any unsavory characters giving her grief. “Is she alright?”

Clark hesitated. “I think something’s wrong with Barbara Ann.” 

“How so? She looked well to me.” Barry had seen Miss Minerva himself at the Dibnys' store, a week or so after she was released from the penitentiary. She’d been purchasing some staples with Sheriff Prince when she greeted Barry in her usual shy, meek way. She’d asked after Wally and congratulated him on his marriage, and they’d had a congenial enough conversation. Sheriff Prince had seemed immensely happy, her eyes alight and her arm settled around Barbara Ann’s willowy waist. He’d been pleased to see her joy. 

Clark shook his head. “She did to me too. But Diana’s been lookin’ so miserable lately, and she made a few comments to me . . . . Well, I think Barbara Ann resents her for what happened, and if she means to take it out on Diana. . . . “ He trailed off, looking upset. “It’s all conjecture and none of my beeswax anyhow.” 

Barry clapped his back. “It’s a lot for anybody to work through, but they’ll figure it out between themselves.”

“I know. I’m frettin’ for the sake of it. Of course Diana’ll solve her own problems. But she puts on such a brave front that nobody sees how deep these things can cut her.”

“And if it does go south, she’ll have her good friend to talk to,” Barry said, giving Clark another nudge. “She’ll be fine.” 

It was getting late, so Barry declined the Kents’ offer to share their supper and said his goodbyes. He hadn’t even cleared the end of the yard before a voice hailed him. 

“Ho, Barry! Wait!” Clark was running down the drive, waving an envelope wildly above his head. He skidded to a halt by the bench, hardly even winded. “I plumb forgot about your letter,” he said apologetically. “Got this on my last trip to the Metropolis Post Office. I meant to bring it over for you a while ago.” 

Barry thanked him and went on his way. Once he’d gotten the cart up on the road, he idly slit open the envelope’s wax seal with a fingernail and smoothed out the creased paper on his thigh. The handwriting was neat and unfamiliar. 

_My dearest Hal_ , it read. 

It felt very much like the bottom of Barry’s stomach dropped straight through his boots. He hastily turned the paper over his knee so he couldn’t read any further. He jiggled the reins into one hand and tugged down the brim of his hat, fixing his eyes firmly on Lightning’s bobbing head. 

He wasn’t going to look. It was none of his business who was writing to Hal. 

And calling him ‘dearest.’ 

“No,” Barry said aloud, and Lightning whickered at him. “No, I’m not leaping to half-cocked conclusions. This is Hal’s private letter. I won’t poke my nose where it doesn’t belong.” 

His hand hovered over the paper. 

He shouldn’t. He really shouldn’t.

He turned it back over and read:

  
  


_My dearest Hal,_

_I was very much relieved to receive your telegram but have a mind to box your ears for what you sent. AM LIVING IN KEYSTONE AT FARM OF B. ALLEN STOP GOT MARRIED TO HIM STOP is a fine thing to say after 2 months of us not knowing whether you had dropped off the face of the good Earth. Tegra is angry at you & will only forgive you if you send us a proper letter explaining the whole story of how you came to be married & living out in the wild. _

_Now that I have said my piece I am immensely sorry to hear about what happened to John. He was a good man. I wish you had come to me for help. You helped me & Tegra so much & of course we would have done the same for you. But you must be alright if you have found yourself someone to marry. Is he kind to you Hal? I hope that you are safe & happy. You deserve to find love as I have. If you are at all unhappy in your new situation you have only to wire & tell me so & I will find a way to bring you back to Nashville. _

_The baby came last month on Sunday the 14th. Tegra was strong & brave thru the entire ordeal & is recovering in bed. My daughter’s name is Josephine Marie. I have never loved anything so much & Hal she is so beautiful. She has been baptized but I hope you will consent to consider yourself her godfather. I am so happy Hal. I never knew fatherhood could be like this. I am now Head Clerk at Edwards Oil & Gas & so am looking for a better house for us. _

_Now that you are married I think you will not feel too badly if I tell you the news. Carol’s engagement is no more. We all knew she was not happy with the match. But the shocking thing is that she has run away with someone else! It seems she fell in love with a cattle baroness from Texas & eloped with her right under Old Ferris’s nose. Carol & Miss Pearlman are very content from what I hear. It is the funniest thing. I wish her joy & hope you do too. I had a letter from her a while back asking after you. She was anxious to hear news of you. If I can get her new address I will wire yours to her so she can write to you herself. _

_This is already a long letter so I will end it here & write more later. Hal please do take care of yourself & respond soon to let me know you are safe so I do not have to worry. _

_Your devoted friend & such, _

_Thomas P. Kalmaku_

_June the 7th 1884_

  
  


It was a sober and humbled Barry who pulled the cart up to the farmhouse later that afternoon. 

Hal was in the barn milking Claudine. He looked to be finishing up, a small pail filled with frothy white milk already set aside. He smiled when he caught sight of Barry. “You’re back early.”

“I owe you an apology,” he said, before Hal could get out another word. He held up the torn envelope like a shameful trophy. “It’s for you. Clark brought this back from his last post run, and it was my fault for not reading the address properly, but I opened it. I read it, and I shouldn’t have, and I’m truly sorry.” 

Hal blinked up at him. “A letter? From who?”

Maybe Hal hadn’t heard him right. “I read _your_ letter.” 

“So you’ve been sayin’,” Hal said slowly, looking puzzled. “What, d’you want me to be steamed at you? I don’t care. I’d’ve had to ask you to read it to me anyway. Who’s it from?” 

“Uh, a Mister Kalmaku.”

“Tom? ” Hal’s face lit up like a torch. “By Jove, he must’ve got my wire! I sent it so long ago I thought maybe it didn’t go through right. Either that or he was madder at me than I reckoned he was. What did he say? Is he well? Did he say anything about Tegra havin’ the baby?”

“It’s a girl,” Barry said. He felt knocked off-kilter by Hal’s reaction, but if Hal wasn’t offended by his misdeed, he wasn’t going to argue that they ought to have a quarrel. “Do you want me to read it?”

“Please.” Hal overturned an empty pail and perched himself on it. 

Barry made himself comfortable on a hay bale next to him and unfolded the letter. He read it through three times, at Hal’s request, and afterwards Hal spent a good five minutes chortling gleefully about Carol’s elopement. If he felt the least bit sore about his former lover marrying somebody else, he certainly didn’t show it. 

“Oh, I wish I saw her daddy’s face!” he crowed. “He wanted that match with Gil so bad, and he didn’t ever give a damn what Carol wanted. Serves him right. She was his only heir too, so now I bet Old Ferris is up a creek without a paddle. I’ve gotta send Carol congratulations and some money for a wedding present.” He scratched his chin. “I’ll need to send something nice for little Josie too. Can you imagine, me bein’ a godfather? Ain’t that just a thing.” He seemed pleased as a punch at the idea. “Is there anyone in town who can sew some clothes for her? Who’d you get Wally’s baby clothes from?”

“Iris sewed them all herself. I can ask around, but I reckon Miss Tora might be able to make something on order,” Barry suggested. “Or I can look and see if I have a few of Wally’s old things packed up somewhere. I gave away most of them, but there might be some swaddling blankets your friends can use.” 

“That’d be swell.” He ran his thumb over the letter, looking fond. “Tom’ll be a good papa to that little one. Tegra’s been prayin’ for a baby since they got married.” 

“That’s an unusual name, Tegra. Is she foreign?” 

“I never mentioned, I guess. She and Tom are Eskimos. They traveled all the way down here from Alaska Territory after we bought it from the Ruskies. They had a hell of a trip, let me tell you.” Hal chuckled, crossing his long legs in front of him. “When I first met Tegra, she was still learnin’ English, but Tom speaks it a far sight better’n me. He works for an oil outfit as a secretary and does about as much as ten of their clerks. It’s about time they promoted him.”

“Wait. Is this the same Tom who used to work with you for Ferris?” Barry asked. On several occasions, Hal had mentioned a young friend named Tom who had been employed at Ferris Shipyards. 

“One and the same. Old Ferris could be a real jackass to Tom and didn’t pay him half what everyone else earned. So when I came to Nashville, I asked John if he knew of any good work, and he found the oil job for Tom. He and Tegra moved down right away.” 

There was a brief silence, and then Barry couldn’t resist saying, “That was really what you telegraphed him? That was all you could think of to say? ‘Still alive. Got hitched to a farmer’?”

Hal laughed. “What else was I supposed to tell him? We’d only been married a few weeks when I sent the wire, and I wasn’t about to tell my whole dang life story to a Western Union clerk.” 

***

Winter blew in fast and cruel the third week of October. 

At the first signs of snow, Barry had started readying the farm for an extended period of isolation. Winters in Keystone were harsh, and once the snows arrived, they wouldn’t melt until February at the earliest. In the most frigid months, the unpaved pig trails became impassable even with the strongest horses, and everybody lived off of what they’d stored up in their pantries. There would be no raw vegetables or fruit and hardly any fresh game. They’d have to take care to keep the well from freezing over, and the chickens would need to be penned up inside the barn. 

Barry made his rounds, checking and double-checking that they had enough food, enough coal and firewood, enough feed for the animals, enough blankets and clothes to keep them warm on the days and nights when the stove wasn’t enough to heat the whole farmhouse. The cellar was lined with jar upon jar of canned fruits and greens, preserved meats and the sides of salted beef, tins of crackers and heaping sacks of flour and sugar and cornmeal. There was plenty of oil for the lamps and a dozen big boxes of matches, along with stacks of old newspapers to help the fire burn hotter. 

Hal and Guy seemed to catch on to Barry’s urgency, and they threw themselves wholeheartedly into the preparations. With their help, and the boys’, the work was done to Barry’s satisfaction in half the time it usually took. No sooner had they moved the washtub into the barn and stuffed anything that might rust into the shed than the first snowflakes began to fall. 

The house was chilly that night. Barry brought out extra blankets for Kyle and Wally, reminding them that they’d need to start wearing their thickest socks to bed to keep their feet from freezing. Guy had mocked him snidely for that, asking if Barry meant to inspect everyone’s feet each night to ensure they were following his lordly dictates. 

With great restraint, Barry refrained from telling Guy exactly where he could put his socks. 

Barry had intended to sit up in bed reading for a while, but the histories of Herodotus couldn’t compete with the sight of Hal slinking under the covers. His smile was all wickedness, and Barry found himself putting his book aside and reaching for him with an ardor that ought to have mortified him. He left the lamp lit, watching, entranced, as Hal sighed and arched above him. They hushed each other in breathless murmurs, muffling their groans in the bedding. 

Sated, Barry fell asleep. 

He woke a few hours later to the drowsy awareness that the mattress beside him was vacant. He stirred, turning over to put his hand to the empty linens. They were cool to the touch. Hal had been gone for a while. He craned his ears, but the house was silent. 

Barry lay there for a minute, arguing with himself. Hal had probably gone to the outhouse or decided to watch the stars for a spell. There was no reason for the nervous flutters in his belly, no reason for the alarm that immediately leapt into his mind. 

He got up and padded out of the bedroom. Guy and Kyle were still in bed, sleeping, and Hal’s boots were there by the door. The anxiety pinching his chest disappeared. He felt foolish, and even a little ashamed. The mystery of where Hal had gone was easily solved: there was a dim orange light shining through the kitchen window from the porch. Barry almost returned to bed. After a second’s thought, he reached for his coat instead. 

Hal was huddled under a wool blanket, a lamp set beside him. He looked up, startled, as the door opened, and Barry saw that one of Wally’s primers lay open in front of him. Hal offered him a wan smile and then shrugged. Barry didn’t say a word either, but he walked over to sit with him. The air had a wicked bite to it. The snowfall had slowed some, just a few glittering flakes here and there. 

“You’ll catch cold out here.”

“Pretty sure you’re only wearin’ johns under that coat,” Hal pointed out. He extended a corner of the blanket in silent invitation. After a moment’s surprise, Barry accepted. Their shoulders knocked as they pulled the edges tight to keep out the chill. Hal radiated heat like a furnace. 

“Did the light wake you?” Hal asked. 

“I woke up anyway. I didn’t realize you were. . . studying.” 

Hal’s smirk had a rueful slant to it. “Not sure I’d call it studyin’. But I do listen in, sometimes, when you’re givin’ the boys their lessons.” He nudged the book with his stockinged foot. “I’ve been thinkin’ that it might be time to give it a try again. It’d be nice to be able to read your books so we could talk about them.”

“That would be nice,” Barry said carefully. “Do you want any help?”

Hal looked relieved. “Would you? You know so much, and you’re patient as a saint. None of my teachers ever had much patience for me. Not that I blame ‘em. But I figure you could find a way to make it make sense. If anybody could hammer it into my head, I’d be you.” 

“I . . . think that’s a compliment?” 

“Course it is. You’re the smartest man I ever met.” 

Barry felt himself redden, and he hoped it was too dark for Hal to see. “Well, I reckon I couldn’t fix a broken clock by myself if you gave me ten years to do it.”

Hal waved a dismissive hand. “I told you already, it weren’t no bother.” 

“You have to know I’d be delighted to teach you. That way you could write to Tom yourself, or to Miss Ferris. Did you wire our address to your brothers too?”

“We ain’t spoken in years.” 

“Oh. I’m so sorry, Hal, I didn’t---”

“It’s alright. I never told you Jimmy and Jack don’t talk to me now.” Hal bunched the blanket further up his neck, drawing his knees to his chest. He didn’t look upset, exactly -- just wistful. “I wasn’t there when Mama died. I missed her funeral. They made it clear I ain’t welcome back, and that’s all there is to it.” 

Barry didn’t know what to say. He’d deduced a while ago, from offhand comments, that Hal had been a young runaway, but he hadn’t known that he had been outright forbidden from going back home. Hal’s pragmatism continually surprised him, but he had to feel the estrangement more than he expressed. 

“She never forgave me, you know,” Hal said, almost absently. “For wantin’ to be a post rider like Pa, even after what happened to him. Made me swear on it, and I lied through my teeth that I wouldn’t.”

“But you didn’t, though.”

Hal cut a glance at him from the corner of his eye. “How many postmen do you reckon can’t read?”

Barry had to laugh at himself for that one even as he apologized, but Hal’s smile was warm and amused.

“Guess I kept my promise in the end,” he said. “Somewhere up there, I reckon she had a good chuckle about that.”

“Well, you’re not the only one,” Barry mused. “I wasn’t supposed to be a farmer. Ma might’ve thought it was funny, but my father would’ve been sorely disappointed. He always wanted me to go away to school and settle in the East. He hated farming. Had no interest in it at all. Truthfully, I think he looked down on it. He missed Boston something fierce, and he didn’t keep it a secret.” 

Barry had often thought that his father hadn’t had a chance because of this. The circumstances of his mother’s death had been highly suspicious, with no other suspects, but if his father had been better liked in Central, it was possible that he might have been given a lesser sentence. It had made it easy for folks to dismiss his claims of innocence, easy to pin the blame on the uppity stranger from the big city who’d come to their town and murdered one of their own. 

“Why’d he end up here in the first place?” Hal asked. “Your ma?”

Barry nodded. “She wouldn't leave. I think my father didn’t realize how much he’d hate it here. Too in love, I suppose.” They hadn’t fought often when Barry was young -- at least not where he could hear it -- but when they did he’d hide under his blankets, covering his ears to muffle the crying and raised voices. The argument was always the same. 

_Why can’t we leave? Why can’t we stay?_

“I guess there’s some irony in it,” Barry reflected. “I bought this land after he died, and I haven’t left since.”

Hal cocked his head. “What would you have done if you’d gone?”

“When I was a boy, I wanted what he wanted -- to go to university and be a scholar, like him. A scientist. I liked chemistry best. It’s why I always enjoyed helping Iris with her daguerreotypes. It didn’t go to plan, obviously.” 

“Was it the money?” 

“No. I’d saved up enough. But after what happened. . . . Well, it wasn’t the right time. I’d just buried them both, and I didn’t want to leave them. And Iris and I were courting, and then there was Wally and the farm to take care of.” Barry’s fingers were starting to stiffen in the cold, and he shifted closer to Hal’s warmth. He held his breath, but Hal didn’t recoil. “It wasn’t meant to be. I wouldn’t trade the life I have for anything.” 

“I don’t see why you couldn’t go now, though,” Hal said after a minute, sounding thoughtful. “You got money, and I could lend you some of mine. Me and Guy are here to take care of Wally. Why couldn’t you go study for a few months out of the year, when things were slower and the crops weren’t coming in?”

“Oh, no. No, Hal, that’d be too much to ask of you all -- and a waste of money besides. What would I do out here? There’s no work for a chemist in Central City.”

“I suppose not,” Hal said. “It was just a thought.” 

Barry was more than ready to turn the subject. “For your lessons, we could go to bed a little early every night and work for a half-hour or so before we went to sleep.” It would be easiest to teach in private, and it was probably the best way to preserve Hal’s pride. “Does that sound agreeable?”

“You sure you want to do this? It’s extra work for you.” 

“Not at all,” Barry assured him. “Besides, you’ll see how dull this time of year can be once you’ve been cooped up inside for a few months. This’ll be something we can both focus on to pass the time.” He pictured himself and Hal snug in bed, reading together by the cozy light of the lamp. Already he was mentally combing through his collection, selecting all the titles he thought Hal would love, all of Barry’s favorite stories that they would be able to discuss together. It was a very appealing notion. 

“Sounds good to me.” Hal shifted and then yawned so wide that his jaw clicked. “I’d shake your hand to seal the deal, but I don’t want my fingers freezin’ off.” 

It may have been a wishful flight of fancy, but it seemed to Barry that when they went back to bed, Hal lay just a little closer.

***

The boys thoroughly enjoyed the first wave of snowfall, flinging themselves into the powdery mounds with merry abandon. After about the twelfth instance of being surprised by a faceful of snow, Barry began checking around corners for an ambush as a simple matter of routine. 

As the weeks passed, however, the novelty wore off. It was frigid at night, and the trek to the outhouse or to the barn for a bath became miserable. They couldn’t go beyond the reach of the yard, and the farmhouse was too small for running games or hide and seek or any real exercise. Wally was accustomed to it, though he’d always struggled with going stir-crazy in the winters, but it seemed to be grating on Kyle and Hal. Hal, at least, could spend more time in the barn with the animals or roam further through the snow, but Kyle was finding it difficult to stay indoors so much. 

Barry encouraged him in his drawing, pulling out the few dusty volumes on art history that his father had owned and looking through them with him in the afternoons. This, at least, seemed to help. Kyle was interested in the illustrations of the great works of European art, and he began to try to replicate them on his own, bringing the sketches afterwards to Barry for his critique. 

It was a pleasant way to spend time together, and Kyle was integrating his new knowledge with an impressive speed, his natural skill honed by what was perhaps his first exposure to actual art theory. He began working on another portrait of his mother -- this was, according to Guy, something he did often as he improved, working and reworking and never quite satisfied that he’d gotten it right -- and when he finished it with his pastels after days of single-minded effort, Barry was genuinely amazed. 

“Why, Kyle, this is beautiful,” he said, holding the picture at arm’s length to take in the whole of it. It really was beautiful. The expression was striking -- there was a strength to the heavy brow and a softness to the tender turn of the Cupid’s bow of her mouth. She looked motherly, and very kind. If this was how her son remembered her, she must have been an exceptional woman indeed. “We’ve got to get this framed. It can hang up on the wall there, if you like.” 

Kyle nodded, looking both embarrassed and proud. 

Barry showed off the portrait to everyone as they gathered around the table for lunch. Hal and Guy had both been fighting mild colds for about a week, but today Guy had been even more crotchety than usual. He’d snapped and snarled at just about everybody, but the picture seemed to sober him up some. He tousled Kyle’s hair and declared that it was the spitting image of Aunt Maura, and that she’d be terribly proud of him. He didn’t say much more, though, and as they gathered up their empty dishes, Guy finally admitted that he had a beastly headache. 

Hal convinced him to take a little laudanum and go lie down in the bedroom with a cold compress. Barry remarked that he was sure he had a hot water bottle somewhere, and he left the boys to their books and went to look in the cellar. After a few minutes, Hal came down too to help him search. 

Above their heads, there was a loud shriek, a thump, an even louder wail, and then Itty started to howl. Barry met Hal’s wide eyes in the breath before they both scrambled for the ladder. 

They emerged almost at the same instant that Guy threw open the bedroom door. All three of them shared a moment’s frozen shock at the sight of Wally and Kyle wrestling ferociously on the kitchen floor, fists flying and feet kicking out every which way. 

Before Barry could move, Guy was already wading in between them, pulling them apart by their collars with an outraged roar. 

“Now, what the devil is wrong with you two?!” he demanded, and he gave both boys a shake. “Kyle, what are you doin’ hittin’ somebody littler’n you? You know better than that!”

Kyle had broken down into sobs. 

Wally ran for Barry, his face red and wet; Barry scooped him up, looking him over for injuries. There was a tiny scrape on his forehead and a bigger one on his elbow that was bleeding sluggishly. Hal had bent over to pick something off the floor, and Barry realized that it was the portrait of Kyle’s mother, torn cleanly in half. 

“Kyle,” Hal said, and he sounded worried. “Kyle, calm down.”

Kyle was crying so hard that he was choking on it. 

“I’ve got him,” Guy said. He rubbed Kyle’s back with firm, anxious movements, but Kyle didn’t even seem to notice. “Breathe, kid. It’s alright, it’s okay. C’mere, with me.” He pulled the boy to his feet, slinging an arm around his quivering shoulders, and took him into the bedroom. 

Hal put the pieces on the table and then came over to inspect Wally’s scrape. “Probably cut it on the floorboards. We’ll need to wash you up and check for splinters.” He rummaged through the cabinets for the cleaning alcohol. 

Barry wiped Wally’s face with his kerchief, dabbing carefully at the scratch above his eyebrow. “You want to tell us what happened here?”

“It was an accident! I wanted to look at the picture and it tore. Then Kyle got mad, and he _pushed_ me!”

Hal came over with the bottle and a rag, and Wally slipped out of Barry’s grasp and clung to Hal’s legs. “It really hurt!”

Hal crouched to give him a hug, but Barry was looking at Wally. He was upset, sure, and it was clear that Kyle had hit him, but . . . . Well, Barry knew exactly what his nephew looked like when he was telling a baldfaced lie. “Wally,” he said slowly. 

Wally’s shoulders hunched defensively. He curled in tighter to Hal’s side, burying his face into Hal’s shirt. 

“You pretending that you didn’t hear me isn’t going to work.” Barry squatted down and took Wally’s chin in his hand, pulling implacably until Wally was looking him in the eye. “I want you to tell me what happened, and I want the truth. Did you tear Kyle’s picture on purpose?”

Wally’s expression was all defiance, but his lower lip trembled. Hal looked astonished. 

“You did,” Barry concluded, keeping his voice calm. “You want to tell me why you’d do a thing like that to Kyle?”

Wally was silent and sullen. 

“What you did was uncalled for, and it was plain mean. Kyle loved his ma and worked very hard on that portrait. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.” Barry didn’t bother to hide his disappointment. He’d raised Wally to be better than this. “You’re going to apologize to him. But right now, we need to get your arm cleaned.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Hal said neutrally. “Hold out your arm.” 

Wally did, reluctantly. “I didn’t mean to,” he said, looking at Hal beseechingly.

“That was mighty unkind, Wally,” Hal said simply, and Wally’s face crumpled. He cried near-soundlessly as Hal inspected his scrape, fat tears rolling down his cheeks. When Barry couldn’t stand watching it any longer, he stepped into the threshold of the bedroom to check on Kyle.

He sat on the bed and seemed to have calmed down some. He was slumped against Guy’s side as Guy talked to him, too quietly to hear, and Barry left them to it. 

“. . . know you didn’t think about the consequences,” Hal was saying, as Barry came back into the kitchen, “but you hurt him awfully just now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know you are. But sorry ain’t gonna fix his picture.” He uncapped the bottle and tipped some liquid into the cloth. “Hold still, chickabiddy. This is gonna sting some.”

Wally didn’t make a fuss, holding still as Hal cleaned out his cut. 

“He’ll owe you an apology too for pushin’ you. But you’ll need to make amends first, because that’s what a man does when he’s made a mistake. You hear?” 

Wally nodded. “It’s not fair, Hal,” he said softly, sniffling. “Why does he get to have a mama and I don’t?”

Barry felt himself recoil. Hal glanced up, looking at him with some surprise, but all of Barry’s attention was fixed on his nephew. “Of course you have a mother. Haven’t I told you all sorts of stories about your Aunt Iris?”

“An auntie’s not a mama,” Wally said matter-of-factly. He looked down at his feet. “You never talk about my mama, except that she didn’t want me.” 

That pierced straight to Barry’s heart, leaving him speechless. 

Hal stoppered the bottle and got up. “There, all clean. I’m gonna see if Kyle’s got any scrapes he needs taken care of.” 

Wally rubbed his dripping nose on his sleeve. “Okay. Can I say sorry now?”

“He may not be ready to hear it yet,” Hal said. “Let me check on him first. Sit tight.” He rapped his knuckles on the door frame before going inside. The door shut lightly behind him. 

Wally wiped his nose again. “Are you mad at me, Uncle Barry?” he asked glumly. 

Barry managed to unstick his limbs at last. He sat on the floor and pulled Wally into his lap. “Wally,” he said, “your mama knew she couldn’t give you a good life. It wasn’t because she didn’t want you, and I’m sorry if I ever gave you that impression. Your parents tried to do what was best for you. You were a gift for Aunt Iris and me. We wanted you so much, and I’ll always be grateful to your mother and father for letting us have the privilege of raising you.” 

Wally’s arms came up around his neck and held tight. “Okay.” 

Barry knew this wouldn’t be the end of it. Clearly, there were conversations they needed to have, especially when Wally was older and able to better understand. He felt terrible that Wally had been carrying around this misconception. It was true that he hadn’t shared stories about Mary, or talked much about her, but it was mostly due to the fact that he hadn’t known her well. He’d hardly known her at all. And what he did know about her wasn’t fit for young ears -- a part of him was braced for the day that Wally would come home upset about being teased or called names, for no other reason than that he was a prostitute’s son. There was also the fact that talking about Mary would mean talking about Rudy, and there was a whole heap of complicated history there. 

Kyle emerged from the bedroom then, Guy’s hand on his shoulder. Apologies were duly exchanged, and it was agreed that it would be best to keep them separated for the rest of the day to let everyone settle down. Guy took Kyle out to the barn to spend some time grooming the horses, and Barry put Wally in the bedroom to nap. 

Hal had found a brush and a pot of paste. He sat at the table gluing the pieces together against a sheet of butcher’s paper. 

“It won’t look pretty,” Hal said, smoothing the feathered edges down as much as he could, “but it’s the best I can do without coverin’ the whole thing in resin.” 

Barry pulled out a chair and fell into it heavily, feeling exhausted. “Lord, what a day.”

“I’m amazed they didn’t fight sooner,” Hal chuckled. “It’s an adjustment, askin’ two families to mingle in tight quarters. And Wally’s awful jealous of your attention.” 

That gave Barry pause. “I didn’t realize.” 

“If it’s any consolation, it ain’t only Wally. It took me awhile to realize that Kyle was sore about me spending so much time with Wally for our riding lessons. They’re not used to sharin’ us. It was bound to cause some hurt feelings sooner or later.” 

“I hope this won’t spoil things between them,” Barry said apprehensively. “They’ve been getting along so well.” 

Hal shook his head, grinning. “Barry Allen, sometimes you make it so plain you were an only child. Wally and Kyle’ll consider themselves proper brothers now that they've had a scrap. You ain't siblings 'til you've bloodied each other’s noses.”

***

When Barry stepped out onto the porch one mild November morning to find a solid wall of gray clouds spanning the horizon, he went right back inside to wake the rest of the house. 

“Blizzard’s coming,” he announced, already pulling on his boots and coat. “Wally, I want you and Kyle to bring in about two more pails’ worth of coal from the shed and put it in the scuttle. Make sure it’s filled up. Hal, will you go to the barn and see that the animals have enough food and water for at least three days? Guy, I want you to come with me. We need to string clothesline from the house to the barn, the shed, the well, and the outhouse.”

Everyone scattered to get their tasks done. Even Guy kept his remarks to a minimum as they anchored the ropes on hammered-in posts. Barry made sure they were triply knotted -- if the snowfall was intense enough to obfuscate their vision, these lead lines would be the only way they’d be able to get to the animals or to the well without risking becoming dangerously disoriented in the snow.

The storm hit late that afternoon, and it snowed, and snowed, and _snowed_. The wind howled and rattled the windows. The drifts reached halfway up the house. The nights were so cold that their breath fogged even inside. It snowed so much that Barry began to get concerned that the flue pipe might freeze, so he kept the fire lit constantly. 

“What if the snow gets up higher than the roof?” Kyle asked one afternoon, staring out at the blank expanse. “What do we do then?”

“I suppose we’d have to tunnel our way out,” Barry said. “But don’t you start fretting. I’ve never heard of snowfall that bad in these parts. It’ll taper off soon enough.” 

It did taper off some after the third day, but not as much as Barry had hoped. He woke late that morning with a headache, feeling fatigued and sluggish. Hal was concerned about the animals, and after a bit of back-and-forth, they finally decided that one of them would shovel out a path along the guide rope. Hal bundled up in about five layers and ventured out. Barry watched as long as he could at the back window. Hal looked small in the snow, the only flash of color in a sweeping expanse of white. But he kept close to the rope, anchoring himself, and slowly plowed his way to the barn. Barry was only able to relax once he saw Hal pry open the barn door and slip inside. 

The boys were reading by the stove, and Guy was whittling, so Barry fixed himself a cup of strong tea with a dash of willow bark, hoping it would ease the throbbing in his head. He’d probably caught whatever Guy and Hal had. 

He’d barely finished half of his drink before Hal returned, dripping melted snow onto the floor.

“Barry,” he said, “I think you better come out to the barn.” 

The barn wasn’t too cold. The chickens were clucking, and Claudine was climbing on the hay bales, and Barry couldn’t figure what was wrong until Hal led him to Lightning’s stall. She was stretched out on her side on the hay, her eyes glassy and unseeing. 

“Oh, sweetheart,” Barry whispered. He crouched down and peeled off his glove, running a hand down the slope of her graceful neck. She was cold to the touch. She had to have been dead for hours. 

“Looks like she went in her sleep,” Hal said. 

Barry stroked her mane. He’d known, of course, that she was getting old, but somehow it hadn’t occurred to him that she could die any day. “Wally’s going to take it hard.” 

Hal leaned against the stall door. “Livin’ a full life and passin’ peacefully at a ripe old age? That’s a good death, the best way any of us can go.” 

“I suppose so.” 

“What do we do with her?” At Barry’s questioning look, Hal clarified, “The ground’s froze. I don’t think we’re gonna be able to bury her. We can’t leave her here neither. And I’m pretty sure you don’t want to use her for meat.” 

Barry cringed. “Call me sentimental, but no.” 

“Yeah, didn’t think so. I don’t see how we have any other choice but to find some solitary spot to put her and leave her for the wild animals. I’m sure they’d appreciate the meal right now. Maybe in the spring we can bury the bones.” 

Between the two of them, they managed to get Lightning’s body rigged up in a makeshift harness. Arkillo didn’t like it, tossing his head and snorting uneasily, but he suffered them to hitch him up and followed them out into the deep snow. They went as far as they safely could, far enough that the decay would be hidden from sight and away from the well, and they cut the ropes in a thick patch of trees that were somewhat sheltered. 

It felt heartless, leaving her there in the open. Lightning was just a horse, but she’d been a part of the farm from the very beginning -- her and Barry and Iris, building themselves a home from the ground up.

“It doesn’t seem right,” Barry said. He felt strangely raw, looking at her lying there. “She was a good girl.” After a moment, he gathered Arkillo’s reins in one gloved hand and pulled up his scarf with the other. “Let’s go back home.” 

Wally did take it hard. He cried for a while and then wanted to know why they couldn’t fix her. Then, finally convinced that she’d been beyond saving, he wanted to go see her and say goodbye. By the day’s end, Barry felt utterly drained. He and Hal had come back soaking wet and cold as the dickens, both boys were upset, he was down a good horse, and it was _still_ snowing. 

He collapsed into bed with his long johns only halfway buttoned. The mattress jostled as Hal crawled in next to him. 

“Your head still achin’?” Hal asked sympathetically. “You want me to fetch you some laudanum?”

“No. It makes me nauseous.”

“Alright.” Hal reached over to turn down the oil lamp.

“Could you do something for me?” Barry asked -- and then, with a resigned sort of misery, he remembered why he shouldn’t. “Never mind.” 

But Hal was already rolling over, an expectant look on his face. “Sure.”

“Nothing. It’s nothing. Goodnight.”

“Oh, come on now.” 

He swallowed. It had been a terrible day, and maybe he could make an exception this once. “Couldn’t you--- If you wouldn’t mind, could you let me--- Could I hold you, just for a little while?” 

Hal’s face was unreadable. His eyes were very dark, and they stared at Barry gravely. 

Barry covered his face with his hands. “I’m sorry. I know you don’t---I know you don’t like it, I’m sorry. I know that. I just wish -- I wanted----” His chest ached with the weight of it, the need to have something to touch, someone to _hold_. “I understand, truly, if you don’t. . . want that from me. But just for tonight, just for a while, couldn’t you. . . . ?” 

Hal’s hands fell on his shoulders, and then Hal’s head pressed up against his chest. Their legs tangled together. Barry clutched him around the waist, and Hal’s open palms came to rest on his back. They lay there for a while, Hal’s breath puffing against his skin. Barry pulled himself together bit by bit, kept in place by the warm weight of the body atop his. 

“What did you mean?” Hal said suddenly, into the silence. “When you said I don’t like it, what did you mean?”

Barry barely managed to suppress an incredulous laugh. “This. You made it pretty clear from the beginning.” He winced, hearing how accusatory he sounded. “You’re allowed to, to not want things, or to be uncomfortable with them. I’m not complaining. It’s only that I was very used to ----- well, bed was a place for affection, for me. Sex too, yes, but . . . it was where I could be . . . . gentle.” 

“Oh,” Hal murmured. There was something faintly sad in his voice. “I’ve never been too good at that.” 

“Not good at it? Or you don’t like it?”

Hal was still for a long time. “I don’t know,” he admitted. 

He didn’t say anything more, but he wasn’t pulling away either, and Barry let himself be selfish this once. His hand wandered across smooth skin, and he nosed into brown hair, feeling the softness against his chin. Hal shifted too, his cheek rubbing against Barry’s skin.

“You’re not an easy man to get to know,” Hal said, so quietly that it was hard to hear. “You keep your cards so close to your chest.” 

Barry stared up at the ceiling.

“We’re two birds of a feather, you and me,” Hal continued, like he hadn’t just cut Barry to the bone with a few words. 

Barry shivered. He felt Hal’s mouth press against his collarbone, barely more than a brush, before he began to gently move away. Barry let him go. 

Hal pulled the covers up around their shoulders. “Get some rest. You’ll feel better in the mornin'.” His hand crept across the space between them, his fingers settling a hair’s-breadth away from Barry’s. “About this being. . . gentle. . . I never stayed long enough for that. Couldn’t afford to. But. . . Well, I got some spare funds these days. Give me time to wrap my head around it, would you?”

Barry found his voice again. “I reckon I could do that.” 

“Alright,” Hal said simply.

It seemed impossible that he’d be able to sleep after that, but Barry slept like the dead. When he finally woke, the sun was shining through the window and his whole body ached. He felt overheated, sweat sticking to the pillow like he’d been burrowed under a dozen wool blankets. The floorboards creaked. He looked over to see Hal in the doorway. 

“Sorry to wake you,” he said, but he came in and sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s your head?”

“What time is it?” Barry mumbled. 

“About nine. You looked so beat I thought it was best to let you sleep in. I already fed the boys. You want something to eat?”

Barry sat up and instantly regretted it. His head spun and his stomach flopped. 

“Hal,” he gasped, before he clapped a hand over his mouth and retched. Like a bolt, Hal scrambled off the bed, and then he was hastily pressing a vase -- of all things -- into Barry’s hands. 

He emptied his stomach into it in short order, but the heaving continued on dry. His whole body felt heavy, as if his limbs weighed twice what they had when he went to sleep. The smell in the tiny bedroom was beginning to make him feel ill again, so Hal whisked the vase away. 

Barry lay there, groaning. He didn’t get sick easy, and it had been so long that he’d forgotten how miserable it was. 

“Hey.” Hal had returned. “You eat something bad? Was it supper, d’you think?”

“I don’t know.” He reached up to wipe at the flop sweat gathered above his mouth. “You aren’t feeling sick?”

Hal shook his head. “Guy and the boys are fine too. You oughta drink something, at least. See if you can keep it down.” He fetched some water and a cup of tea, along with a handful of soda crackers. Barry couldn’t bring himself to eat, but he did manage to down the water and most of the tea. 

He fell asleep again and didn’t wake until the sky was dark outside. His shirt was unbuttoned, and someone was running a wet cloth over his face. He felt cold. 

“Hal,” Barry murmured. He was so tired that even words were an effort, but he managed to pry open his eyes. 

“How’re you feelin’?” Hal dipped the cloth into a basin and wrung it out. He reached up and swept it across Barry’s neck and down his chest. Barry tried to bat his hand away. It was too cold. Hal looked unhappy.

“What’s wrong?”

The cloth moved back up to his forehead, wiping softly. “You’ve come down ill, and you got a fever. We’re lookin’ after you, okay? Just rest.” 

“Oh.” He managed to get his fingers around Hal’s wrist. “Don’t let Wally in here. Don’t want him getting sick.” 

“I won’t,” Hal promised. “It’s just me. The others are stayin’ away, don’t you worry.” 

Awareness came and went in flashes. When he could focus, he knew that Hal was there, bathing him and cleaning him, tipping glasses of bitter-tasting water down his throat or nudging small pieces of bread between his lips or holding a bucket under his chin as he coughed up everything he’d managed to swallow.

His body was beyond his control. He was beyond embarrassment, beyond caring about anything but the cramping in his belly and the waves of heat and cold that burned him up and left him shivering violently under the blankets. 

He drifted for hours. Maybe days. Maybe years. 

A hand was on his shoulder, shaking him. 

“Barry.” Hal’s voice had a queer echo to it, as if it were coming from very far away. “Barry, I need you to listen. Is there a doctor in town?”

“No,” Barry croaked. His throat felt so dry. He drank deeply out of the cup that appeared, gulping it down until he choked. Hal took the water away. 

“Easy now. Easy, just little sips. You sure there’s no sawbones nearby? Anyone who’s got some medical know-how? Can you think of anybody at all?”

Thinking made his head split. “No,” he said, and he wished desperately for more water. Why wouldn’t Hal give him any? It wasn’t fair. “Used to be Doc McNider. But he’s been dead for twenty years. We don’t have a doctor. It’s why Iris died.” 

“Barry, lie down. It’s alright.” 

“No, it’s not. She burned up, and there wasn’t anybody to help me. There should’ve been a doctor.” He didn’t realize he was crying until he felt cool hands on his cheeks, wiping the wetness away. 

“Oh, darlin’,” he heard Hal say, and he sounded strange. 

Time went sideways. When he woke up again, he heard people talking nearby, weaving in and out, snatches of voices that he knew, but they might as well have been speaking another language for all he understood them. He lay there and let it wash over him.

_\-----There’s got to be---- not better----this kind of ague----help now, and it can’t-----_

_\-----gonna get to help? There’s nobody----_

_\-----Clark--- her tonics----_

_\-----Buncha malarkey, Jordan----said yourself, he-----medicine---- cup of boiled----place is too ------snow-----_

_\----tack up Arkillo now and get there before-----_

_\------No-----damn well know it-----four-foot deep and----damned cold---- the horse would both -----before----went a mile out-----_

_\----Then what the devil-----cholera?-----not gonna just sit here and-----Wally----please----Go play with---- chickabiddy----can’t see-----Barry, now----_

Wasn’t that Hal’s voice? But Hal had been holding his hand, hadn’t he? And where was Wally? There was more talking, and then a child was crying. Wally. He needed to get up to feed the baby, or the sound would wake Iris. She hadn’t been sleeping well. Barry walked over to the crib, or he thought he did, but when he opened his eyes, he hadn’t moved at all. He was so tired. Iris would understand. 

He closed his eyes and let sleep take him again. 

***

There was no sensation quite like waking up from a bad fever. It was as if the world had been covered with smoke, or mired in heavy rain and humid fog, and all of a sudden the air was clean and breathable again, and he could see clearly.

Barry shifted on the bed, blinking against the bright light streaming in through his window. His bedclothes stuck stiffly to his body as he sat up. He was terribly thirsty, and his stomach rumbled with hunger. He felt a little dizzy too, but he supported himself and was able to stand without much wobbling. 

The bedroom was in disarray. There were rags and dishes of water everywhere, empty cups, a pile of linens on the floor. The stuffy air smelled of sick and sour sweat. He took a few steps, waiting to see if he’d falter, but his legs were steady -- surprisingly steady, if he’d been as ill as he was starting to suspect he’d been. 

Anxious to leave his sickroom, he opened the bedroom door. Kyle and Guy were sitting at the table eating, but they sprang up as one. 

“Barry! You’re okay!”

Barry had to catch himself as Kyle barreled into him, arms cinching fiercely around his middle. Barry hugged him with the hand that wasn’t braced on the wall, his gaze searching the rest of the house -- there was only Itty, sleeping by the stove. 

“I’ll be damned,” Guy said. “Looks like you beat the Devil back today. How you feelin’?”

“A little weak,” Barry admitted. Kyle’s grip tightened. “Hungry. Thirsty too.”

“I’ll fetch you something,” Guy said. “Sit.”

With Kyle’s help, he made it over to the table, lowering himself in careful increments. Seeing their reactions, he figured he must really have been knocking at death’s door for a while there. He couldn’t quite grasp the idea, as the last few days were a blank slate in his memory, but as fatigued and uncomfortable as he was now, he felt grateful to be alive. 

Guy set a cup of water and a bowl of thin porridge in front of him. “Reckon you can handle that?”

“Should be fine, thank you,” Barry said. Guy’s cooking was bland and overdone at best, but his stomach was growling eagerly. He drank down the water first and then managed a few careful spoonfuls before letting it sit to make sure it stayed put. “I feel like I’ve lost a whole week. Where’s Hal and Wally?”

“They’re out,” Guy said tersely. “Keep eatin’. Need to get your strength up.” 

Barry picked up his spoon, but his eyes went to the window, where snow was falling thickly behind the frosted-over glass. “In the barn?” he asked, puzzled. From the corner of his eye, he saw Kyle flinch, and suddenly he wasn’t hungry at all. His fingers clenched around the spoon. 

“Guy. Where are they?”

“Like you said, in the barn. Finish up your food and then go back to bed and rest.” 

Barry braced himself on the table, feeling like he couldn’t breathe. Guy was lying. Oh, God, had Hal and Wally fallen ill? Did they catch what he had? “No, they’re not. Tell me the truth!”

Guy swore, hurling the pot he’d been scrubbing across the room. It hit with an almighty clatter, scaring Itty under the table, and Kyle shrank against the wall. “God _damn_ it! They’re gone, Allen. Wally ran off, and Jordan went after him.”

“What are---- _what?_ ”

Guy grabbed him by the shoulders, holding him down in his chair as he struggled to get up. “I meant what I said. We woke up and Wally had took off, and Hal went out to search for him. Stop tryin’ to stand, you’re gonna keel over.” 

“Let me go! I can still catch up with them.”

“No, you bloody well can’t. Hal tacked up Arkillo.” 

Barry slapped his hands away. “And you let him go alone?”

A furious flush spread up Guy’s face before his lips twisted in a sneer. “He and I knew damn well that the minute we both left, Kyle would be runnin’ out to look for Wally too, and to hell with whatever we told him. I stayed because I needed to make sure the kid stayed and you didn’t die of whatever plague you got, and I ain’t Hal’s keeper. I’d like to see you stop him from doin’ something he’s already fixed his mind to doin’.” 

Barry finally managed to get up. He could find them on foot if he bundled up warm and paced himself. They probably hadn’t gotten far from the yard, maybe down to the creek, if it had only been a few hours. “When did Hal leave?” 

There was a tense silence. Kyle’s eyes were like saucers, and a vein pulsed in Guy’s jaw.

“‘Bout two days ago,” Guy said at last, reluctantly. 

“ _Two_ \---!” Barry staggered to the front door, almost falling with the force that it took to wrench it open. “Oh, Lord Jesus!” The snow was coming down so hard that he couldn’t see the end of the porch, a great drift spilling out onto his bare feet. It was bitterly cold. The lightheadedness rose up so fast and hard that he thought he’d faint right there. “Oh, my God, _Wally_.” 

Guy’s big hand closed around his elbow. “Shut the door. I ain’t been playin’ nursemaid this whole time for you to have a fit and die now.” 

But Barry clung to the door frame. If he stood here, if he kept watch, if he waited, maybe Hal and Wally would appear, and this whole nightmare would be over. No. No, he had to go, he had to try to find them, lost somewhere in that snow. He had to. “Get my coat and boots, I’m going.” 

“Like hell you are.” 

“If you aren’t going to help me, get out of my way.”

Guy muscled his way around him and shoved Barry back inside, sending him stumbling into the wall and pinning him there.

“Stop it!” Kyle cried. “Please, stop!”

Guy kicked the door shut hard enough to shake the wall. “You go out there right now, you’re dead meat. Can’t tell your elbow from your ass in that snow, and all you’ll do is make it so we’re missin’ three idiots instead of two!”

“Can’t you get it through your thick head? None of you know this land like I do,” Barry shouted. He felt half-wild, a howling, horrible conviction shrieking at him that if he didn’t do something right now, it would be too late. “They could be riding in circles right outside the yard! They could have fallen in a ditch, or the horse might’ve gone through the ice into the creek -- they need help!”

“Don’t holler at me!” Guy bellowed. He took a deep breath, screwing his eyes shut. “Listen good, Allen. Hal’s smarter ‘n he looks. He and the kid are probably shelterin’ somewhere to ride the storm out.”

“You don’t know that. You don’t know a blasted _thing_. Get. Out. Of. My. Way.” Barry pushed forward to shoulder past Guy’s bulk, and the next few seconds were a disorienting blur: an arm cinching around his neck, the world going topsy-turvy, Kyle screaming, and then finally a jolt and a pain in his rear as Barry opened his eyes to find himself sitting on the packed dirt of the root cellar floor. 

“I’ll let you out when the snow stops,” Guy said, and the door slammed shut. 

Barry blinked around the cool darkness of the cellar in disbelief. Something thumped, and the wood above him shuddered, and he realized that Guy had sat down on the door. He lunged up the ladder to put his shoulder against the wood, but he was too slow -- he couldn’t budge the plank more than an inch. 

“You’re not serious,” Barry growled. 

“Look,” Guy huffed, “I promised Jordan I wouldn’t let you do nothin’ stupid. You promise not to be stupid, I’ll let you out.” 

“Open the door, Gardner!” 

“I’m thinkin’ no.”

He changed tacks. “I don’t feel well, and I need to use the outhouse. Let me out.” 

“There’s a bucket down there somewhere.”

Barry gnashed his teeth. There was a long silence, and for a while all Barry could hear was the sound of his own loud breathing. 

There was another thump above him, gentler this time. “Please don’t be mad at us, Barry. And don’t worry, okay? Guy and me won’t forget about you. We’ll give you water and lots of blankets.” 

“Kyle, you have to help me. _Please_.” 

“I’m sorry,” Kyle said wretchedly. “I don’t want you to go out in the storm too.” 

Barry leaned his forehead against the rung in front of him, defeated. He let himself slide back down to sit in a limp pile at the bottom of the ladder. It seemed like nobody said anything for a very long time. 

Two days, and Hal and Wally hadn’t come back. 

It was possible that they’d made it to the Garricks’ place or stumbled on the old abandoned Scott cabin to hunker down until the storm passed, like Guy said, but it wasn’t likely. Hal didn’t know the land’s boundaries well. He hadn’t learned the shortest routes to the closest neighbors. In a directionless blizzard, it would be twenty times harder to find landmarks. 

Two days.

If they hadn’t gotten help before nightfall on the first day, Barry thought numbly, it was already too late. There were no caves or hollows on his property, no gulches to shelter from the hard-driving winds. Even the trees were sparse outside of the orchard. There was nothing out there to protect them from the brunt of the subzero cold. 

The Kents had lost six head of cattle to a blizzard a few years back, and Barry had come to help them haul the bodies from the pasture. With fur tipped in frost and their velvety noses burned raw by the wind, the poor beasts’ bodies had locked where they’d lain down to die. In his mind’s eye, he saw Wally and Hal huddled together in the snow somewhere, frozen in place. Wally might live a little longer, if he was tucked inside Hal’s coat, but as soon as Hal succumbed and the heat left his body, it would only be a matter of time. Or worse, they hadn’t found each other at all, and they’d each died alone, cold and scared.

Barry sat there, slumped against the ladder, and wept bitterly. 

He might have fallen asleep, or he might have gotten himself so worked up in his already weakened state that he’d passed out, but Barry only stirred back to awareness when he felt hands under his arms, lifting him up off the floor. 

There was no point in fighting. Barry let Guy half-carry him up the ladder and out of the cellar. He was plopped down unceremoniously by the stove, and a bowl of stew was pressed into his hands. He put it down. Kyle sat next to him and placed it back in his hands and begged him to eat, so he did. 

“They’ll come home,” Guy said. “Just you wait and see.”

Eventually Kyle laid down in Wally's bed, curled around Itty. He was quiet, but his shoulders were shaking unmistakably, a few stifled sobs escaping here and there until he finally fell asleep. Barry stayed awake, too afraid to let himself dream. Despite his big talk, Guy didn’t sleep either, moving restlessly from the cot to the fireplace and back as the night wore on. 

It was past midnight when Barry broke the silence to ask, “Why did he run away?” 

“Hell if I know. I left him for just a minute, and then his coat and shoes were gone, and he----” Guy stopped abruptly, and his hands rose to cradle his head. 

They didn’t say another word. 

It was the longest night of Barry’s life. He’d be in down in the depths of mourning when a little spark of hope would appear -- maybe they had made it to shelter, maybe they were somewhere warm and safe and waiting for the snow to pass -- but then his more realistic self would tamp it down and the grief would surface all over again, twice as potent for a moment’s relief. Hours passed in an exhausting cycle of wishful thinking and the blackest despair. 

He’d lost his parents young, and he’d borne it. He’d lost Iris too soon, and he’d borne it again. But losing Wally, losing his child -- he _couldn’t_. He knew he couldn’t bear it, that there was no moving on from such pain. Wally had blown into his life like a summer squall, but from the very beginning Barry had loved him like his own. Wally gave him purpose. He was a piece of Iris, a reason to look for a future beyond his mourning. That he might never hear Wally’s voice again or tell him a bedtime story or see him grow into a good man was an agony too great to describe. 

And Hal, _Hal._ He pictured Hal’s warm brown eyes, smiling at him from across the pillow, and it filled him with regret and an enraged sort of anguish. They’d had so little time. 

Just after dawn, Guy finally succumbed to a troubled sleep. Barry fought with himself about whether to slip out now to search. He was still as feeble as a lamb, and maybe it was the coward’s way out, but if Wally was truly gone, it didn’t matter if he came back or not. There were enough stores to see Guy and Kyle through the winter, and they could keep the house if they chose. 

But no. No. That was the grief talking, fogging his mind with mad notions. If he left now, he wouldn’t be here to keep watch. What if they were both hale and alive, and they came back and found that Barry had given up? No, he couldn’t cast away his hope, not until he had proof one way or another. If there was even a chance that Wally would need him, he had to be here for it.

He could hardly stand, but he made it to the cabinets and then to the table. He choked down several hunks of bread and cheese and drank cup after cup of tea, and he felt a little steadier afterwards. Something wet touched his foot, and he looked down to find Itty nosing around for crumbs. Hal always fed her scraps. He spoiled her rotten. 

Barry covered his face. 

Kyle and Guy got up later that morning. Nobody spoke much, and nobody had any interest in doing anything. They stirred only to stoke up the fire or stand at the window for a while before ceding it to someone else, as if they were guards handing over the next shift at the gate. 

As morning melted into noon and then to dusk, the snowfall stopped. It was Kyle who spotted the faint figures at the end of the yard. “Horses,” he cried out excitedly. “Someone’s coming!”

Barry was at the door in a blink, prising it open to a blast of icy wind. He shielded his eyes against the glare of the setting sun on the snow, squinting at the distant, moving shapes and hoping against all hope. Two horses, two riders. 

No, three. 

That was Hal. That was Hal, holding Wally on his lap. 

Barry ran. He sank up to his thighs; he stumbled and fell forward and then picked himself back up, scarcely breaking his stride, scarcely feeling the cold on his skin. He could hear Guy plowing clumsily through the snow behind him. 

“Wally!”

“Uncle Barry!” And yes, that was Wally’s voice, faint but unmistakable. Barry staggered again and then ran faster. It seemed that an age passed, but finally he was there, reaching up with both arms to take Wally from Hal’s hands. 

“Oh, thank God,” he breathed. He peppered fervent kisses across Wally’s hair and brow, anywhere he could reach, pushing back his hat so he could see his face, rosy-cheeked and unhurt. “Oh, thank you, thank you.” 

Wally clung to him like a burr. 

A hand touched Barry’s shoulder, and Barry groped blindly to snag Hal’s gloved hand, squeezing it painfully in his. “Are you alright, Hal?”

“I’ve got a hankerin’ for something hot to drink, I’ll admit. But Jesus, Barry, how about _you_ _?_ You feelin’ like yourself again?”

“I’m fine.” They were alive, they were safe. Barry could have collapsed with the beautiful relief of it. 

“We need to get out the wind,” an unfamiliar voice said, and Barry finally turned his attention to the second horse behind Arkillo. The other rider was a stranger, a woman in a hooded fur cloak with a leather bag strapped across her chest. “This one cannot walk,” she continued. “One of you must carry him inside.”

“I’ve got ‘im, lady. Jordan, I ain’t ever been so glad to see you in all my born days, you stupid bastard.”

Hal braced himself on Guy’s shoulders as Guy loosened the stirrups and pulled him from Arkillo’s back. He slung him into a bridal carry, but Hal didn’t even complain. To Barry’s worried eyes, he seemed plain tuckered out. He wasn’t wearing any boots, just what looked like several pairs of thick woolen socks, white bandages peeking out below his ankles.

“Hal, your feet!” Barry reached out to touch the bandages tentatively as they all struggled back through the snow to the house. “What happened?”

“Chilblains,” the stranger said. “They'll heal if he stays off his feet and keeps them wrapped with witch hazel and lanolin. I have some I'll give to you.” 

“Barry, this here is Doc Natu,” Hal explained as they cleared the threshold. Guy brought him over to the table, easing him down into a chair and folding a blanket over his shoulders. Kyle flew over to him eagerly, hugging on Hal’s neck like a limpet. “She saved Wally and me.” 

As it turned out, Hal had managed to make it to the abandoned Scott homestead after all, but it wasn’t as abandoned as they’d thought. Miss Sora Natu, a traveling physician, had been passing through and decided to squat there until spring. She and her companion Iolande had settled in a few months before, patching up the worst of the damage to barricade themselves against the elements and making themselves at home. 

“I wouldn’t have known which way to go if I hadn’t seen the light from their windows,” Hal said. He accepted a cup of coffee from Barry and paused to take a big gulp of it. “It was just startin' to get dark.”

“You can thank Iolande for wanting to stay up late,” Doctor Natu said. She had set down her bag and was arranging her heavy cape by the fire to dry. “It was a stroke of good fortune. If I'd had my way, I would have had the lamps turned down an hour before.”

Guy went back outside to put the horses in the barn, and Barry finally turned to look at their guest properly. Doctor Natu looked to be around his own age and was maybe five foot on a good day. She was kitted out in huntsmen’s leathers and a man’s shirt, her black hair pinned up under a gingham headscarf. Her eyes were as dark as her hair, and they gleamed keenly as she observed the house, no doubt taking in every detail.

He offered her some coffee, which was accepted with a polite formality. She brought her bag over to the table and opened it up, and Barry saw that it was her physician’s kit, fitted out with all manner of shiny instruments and bottles of powders and pills. 

“Wally, I'd like to look at your leg and show your uncle how to clean the stitches properly,” she said.

“Stitches?” Barry repeated anxiously. “What happened?”

“He took a tumble and cut up his leg on a rock that was under the snow,” Hal explained, and Wally nodded mournfully. 

“It hurt real bad,” he said. “But Miss Sora sewed me up.” 

Wally obediently tugged down his tattered trousers and sat on the table, and Barry watched intently as she unwound the linen bandages around the boy’s left knee. To Barry’s relief, there was only a tiny row of neat stitches -- perhaps two inches long -- above his kneecap. Beyond some purplish bruising, it didn’t look severe. 

The doctor gave them some simple instructions for keeping it free of dirt and infection and gifted them a roll of her own linen bandages and a round tin of lanolin for Hal’s chilblains. Guy returned from the barn, stamping the snow off his boots. Kyle took his sopping coat to hang by the fire and then came back to the table to watch with interest as Wally’s knee was re-wrapped, the doctor explaining each step as she went. 

“You talk pretty, ma’am,” Kyle remarked, and then he flushed up to his hair. “I mean, I like to listen to you. I’ve never heard anyone talk the way you do.” 

Doctor Natu smiled, her sharp features easing into something warmer. “That's kind of you to say, Mister Kyle.” She tied off the end of the bandage and snipped it with a pair of tiny silver scissors. “I come from a place called Algiers. Do you know your geography? Maybe you've heard of it.” 

“I know where Canada is, and England and Spain too,” Wally piped up. “Uncle Barry has a map of the whole world.” 

“The _whole_ world? My, my.” She gestured for him to stand so he could pull up his britches, and then she lifted him from the table and set him back on the floor. “Imagine how many countries you'll know by the time you're grown.” 

Kyle leaned over the back of his chair. “It’s a long way away, isn’t it, ma’am? Across the ocean?”

“It is. You may call me Miss Sora, if you like.” 

“Sora, huh?” Guy said. “Pretty name for a pretty gal.” 

She leveled him with a look that could curdle milk. “ _You_ may call me Doctor Natu.”

Hal sputtered into his cup. “Oh, I knew I liked you, Doc,” he laughed, once he’d wiped his mouth.

Guy grumbled a bit, but Barry was distracted by Wally tugging on his sleeve. “Can Miss Sora fix you up now, Uncle Barry?”

Doctor Natu observed him with a critical eye. “I was told that you had a fever, Mister Allen. You look quite recovered, though your color could be better.”

“I’m fine now,” Barry assured them, but he suffered to let the doctor poke around and peer at his nose and ears and throat and ask him a litany of personal questions. Assured that he wasn’t hiding any mysterious rashes or leaking from anywhere untoward, the doctor declared that he’d likely had influenza, or perhaps had eaten contaminated food that gave him a touch of the ague. 

“You are very lucky,” she said. “A prolonged fever is dangerous. Drink as much as you can for the next several weeks to flush yourself out, and eat light foods, nothing rich.”

“I don’t know how to thank you enough for all that you’ve done for us,” Barry told her. “Is there anything you need for the cabin? Any food or supplies we can give you?”

“This is what I do, Mister Allen. As I've told your husband repeatedly, I do not require compensation.”

“The least we can do is give you some stores for the winter.” 

“We're doing quite well for ourselves, but thank you.” 

“Come now, Doc,” Hal wheedled, smiling his most charming smile. “We would’ve died if not for you and your missus. For the sake of my pride, you gotta take something. You wouldn’t make me obliged to you forever, would you? You like apples? Everybody likes apples. We make preserves and ciders and apple butter----”

She sighed, looking a touch exasperated. “Very well. A jar of apple butter for Iolande. She likes sweet things.” 

“Three jars, and it’s a deal.” 

“Of course you’ll stay the night with us too, won’t you?” Barry asked. “It’s too dark to go back now.” 

“That would be the wisest course, yes. A pillow would be appreciated if you have one to spare.” 

There was a brief but intense argument about who would sleep where. Barry argued that the doctor should take the bedroom, as she was a guest and a lady besides, but he was shot down so fast his head spun. She accepted her pillow and slept under her cloak by the fire, and Barry helped Hal limp into the bedroom, feeling chastened. 

“Oh, I _like_ her,” Hal was chuckling. “You look like you just got your knuckles rapped by the schoolmarm.” 

Barry got him settled on the bed and then tugged off the layers of stockings. He almost gasped. Hal’s toes were a ghastly sight, the skin mottled with rashy sores, and some of them were purple, they were so swollen. 

“Do they hurt terribly?” Barry asked pityingly. He sat and watched as Hal dabbed them with witch hazel. 

“It don’t feel great,” Hal said, grimacing as he hit a tender spot, “but at least they aren’t froze off. I’d rather have hurt toes than none.” He rolled on a clean sock. “It’s my own fault. I forded the creek. Could’ve looked for the bridge, but I wasn’t sure how far it was, and I wanted to get us out of the cold as fast as I could.” 

The door opened then, and Wally sidled inside, already in his nightshirt. “Can I sleep in here?” 

Truth be told, it was a boon to have Wally there that night, snugged up next to him. Anytime he’d start to worry again, he could glance down and see that Wally was right there, safe and sound. It comforted Wally too, Barry could tell. 

"You promise you won't get sick again when Miss Sora leaves?" Wally asked suspiciously, when Barry pressed him a little about how he was feeling. 

"I can't promise, Wally. People get sick sometimes. But I'm much better now."

Wally wriggled closer. "I'm sorry I ran away," he said. "I know it was bad. But Guy said you had a fever. Aunt Iris had a fever before she went away. I didn't want you to go away too. I would miss you too much." 

Barry stroked a hand through his hair. He didn't know what to say. 

"Well, nobody's going anywhere anytime soon," Hal declared, and he tweaked Wally's nose until the boy giggled and swatted his hand away. "And no more jaunts out in the snow, alright? I don't have any toes to spare right now."

It didn't take long for Wally to fall asleep. Barry extinguished the lamp, but he and Hal stayed up late, whispering to each other in the dark.

As it happened, Barry really had been seriously ill. As Hal explained it, it got to the point where he and Guy had considered the possibility of one of them traveling to the Kents’ place to see if Mrs. Kent had any herbal medicines that might help. They’d been desperate, as Barry’s fever had shown no signs of abating, but ultimately had decided it was too risky. Wally, however, had overheard and resolved to go on his own. 

He hadn’t actually made it far, having fallen in the snow and hurt his leg, but by the time Hal had caught up with him, the flurry had impeded their sense of direction. They’d been thoroughly lost. By chance, Hal had stumbled across the worm-fence that bordered the east side of the property, and so they’d ridden Arkillo along it all the way to the creek. From there, he knew that the Scott cabin was a mile or so northwards and that it was closer than trying to turn around and go back home. 

Poor Arkillo had done his best, plowing through the deep snow until he was lathered and panting; they had no choice but to lead him and continue on foot or risk being pinned if the horse collapsed. The temperature had dropped precipitously. Fortunately, Hal’s winter coat had belonged to John and was three sizes too big. There was enough room for him to carry Wally on his back and button the coat around both of them. 

Hal had walked as far as he could in the hopes of coming across the cabin, but his feet had gotten soaked and began to freeze inside his boots. He’d been close to exhaustion by the time he’d come across the light. Iolande had spied them coming, and the two women had braved the storm to help Hal hobble inside. 

“It’s the damnedest thing,” Hal mused quietly. “I couldn’t believe our luck. Here we were, needin’ a doctor for you -- and for us, by the end -- and there she was. We never would’ve known she was here if Wally hadn’t run off. Her missus is swell too, a fine sweet gal. They deserve a heck of a lot more than three jars of butter.” 

Barry took this all in as he listened to Wally’s breathing, watching his thin shoulders rising and falling peacefully under his arm. “You saved his life, Hal,” he whispered. “Thank you. Thank God for you.” His voice broke. He felt Hal roll over. A moment later, a hand touched Barry’s hip, a warm body rising up to press against Barry’s back. 

“He’s alright,” Hal murmured. 

“I know,” Barry said, knuckling roughly at his eyes. “If I’d lost him. . . . “

“You didn’t.”

Barry swayed back as an arm slipped over his ribs, Hal’s hand coming to rest on his chest. He drew up his legs, fitting them behind Barry’s, their bodies touching from head to toe. Hal shivered. Groping for the quilt, Barry pulled it higher over all three of them, warmth filling his chest as Hal nestled against him. 

“I was so afraid for you. When Guy told me that you’d gone after him, I was so afraid.”

Hal didn’t say anything, but Barry felt the arm around his waist tighten. For all his bravado, maybe Hal had been afraid too. A prairie blizzard was nothing to scoff at, even for the most seasoned old-timers. 

It was hard to stay awake, but Barry didn’t want to sleep yet. He wanted to enjoy this -- Wally secure in his arms and Hal at his back, burrowed so close -- but he was plumb worn out after days of illness and the most distressing night of his life. Comfortable and at peace for the first time in well over a week, he fell asleep to the sound of blowing snow. 

* * *

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	6. Interlude

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas with the Garricks. (In which Doc Natu is a secret card sharp, new friendships are forged, and Barry and Hal overindulge.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally the first part of Ch. 6, but ultimately I decided that it worked better as a standalone interlude. It's basically just some pure fluff before things get heavy in the next section.
> 
> Sorry for the long wait between updates! My job is in academia, so it's been a very busy month scrambling around trying to figure out what to do for the upcoming semester. I hope you all are staying safe and healthy in these uncertain times.
> 
> Chapter warnings: mention of character death, sexual content, tipsy (consensual) sex.

* * *

_Interlude: Joyeux Noël_

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* * *

Christmas Day dawned clear and cold, suitable weather for a journey in the snow. 

There was no sleigh to be had, so the wagon would have to do. Under Wally and Kyle’s exacting direction, Barry had nailed a few garlands and sprigs of greenery to the sides of the cart, along with a string of decorative tin bells that had belonged to some distant relative or another. Hal had piled the wagon bed with blankets and a straw mattress. They all dressed in their warmest clothes from crown to toe, bolstered by a carafe of hot cider to warm their hands and bellies during the pilgrimage to the Garricks’ farm. 

The snow was packed enough now that the wagon wheels turned smoothly and Arkillo had no trouble keeping his footing. They’d made a detour past the old Scott cabin on the way, adding two more riders to their little caravan. 

Barry shifted on the driver’s bench, tugging his woolen cap down further over his ears. A horse appeared in his peripheral vision -- Doc Natu had pulled her sable mare abreast so that they could hear each other over the jingling bells and the crunch of hooves in the snow. 

“Iolande wonders if the children are cold,” she said. “She offers the use of her muff.” 

From behind the doctor’s shoulder, Iolande smiled serenely. She was a dainty slip of a thing, with long auburn hair that shimmered down her back like watered silk. When she caught Barry’s eye, she lifted one hand from the doctor’s waist to shake the fluffy mink muff she held. 

Barry glanced back at the wagon bed. The boys were huddled together and listening, riveted, to some fantastical yarn that Hal was spinning. Itty was a comfortable lump under the blankets, her tail swishing. “Tell her that’s mighty kind, but they seem to be warm enough.”

Doc Natu passed on the message, her authoritative voice not the least bit blunted by the musical lilt of impeccable French. Not for the first time, Barry wished he’d shown more of an interest in learning languages. His father had spoken fluent French, but Barry had never shown an aptitude for it; he’d found what crumbs of Latin and German he’d picked up more useful for his scientific pursuits. 

It was pleasant to have neighbors so near to the farm again. Apart from his friendship with Jay, old Alan Scott had been something of a recluse. After he’d died and his daughter Jennie had left Keystone for good, Barry hadn’t thought anyone would ever take the property again. By the strict letter of the law, of course, Doc Natu and Iolande were squatters, but Barry doubted that kind-hearted Jennie would care that her lot was being temporarily occupied by people who needed it. 

To tell the truth of it, Doc Natu was a fascinating soul. Intelligent and reserved and fiercely private, she was a rather closed book. Bit by bit, however, as they’d dined together and fixed up the Scott cabin, she had opened up to them. From her hometown in Algiers, she was sent to England to study at the Royal College of Medicine and had spent most of her adult life there. She and Iolande had met and fallen in love in Paris, and when Doc Natu had come to America to practice medicine, Iolande came with her. 

“What made you choose this place?” Barry had asked her one afternoon over coffee. She had come to remove the stitches from Wally’s leg; there was only a faint pink bloom where the jagged wound had been. “With that sort of education, you could have practiced anywhere.” 

“I have a calling, and I’m needed here.” It might have sounded arrogant had it been said with pride. But there was no vanity there -- just a frank acknowledgement of fact. “I’ve passed through towns that have never had a doctor before, who come to their barbers and superstitious herb-wives for treatment. There is a shocking lack of medical education. The tonics that are sold as cure-alls are hardly fit for cleaning floors! People require teaching, and access to real care.” 

“That’s true enough,” Barry mused. “I had a rotten tooth pulled out by the blacksmith when I was a boy. He was the only one who had a pair of tongs small enough to do it.” He topped up his cup and offered the kettle to her as well, only to be waved away. American coffee was, according to the doctor, watery, astringent swill that was best appreciated in very small doses. 

Her lip curled. “A wonder you didn’t die of putrid infection.” 

“I suppose it is. In any case, you’re doing admirable work. I would have appreciated your expertise a few years back.” At the doctor’s inquisitive look, he added, “My first wife.” 

“My condolences,” she said levelly. “Do you know what it was?”

“Cholera. There was a contaminated well in town, and a few dozen people fell ill. By the time we were able to get medicines from the nearest apothecary, a good number had already died.” It had been a very dark time for the entire county. At first no one had known which wells were safe to drink from, and there had been all sorts of contradictory advice making the rounds as hysteria set in. Some had said it was the cold water that was dangerous, and that only hot water should be used. Some said that cutting the water with vinegar or alcohol would purify it. Others swore off it altogether, insisting that beer was safer. There were even rumors that those who were ill were contagious, as if it were some sort of leprosy. Iris had been among the first to succumb.

“What sort of medicines did they send? Syrups that induced vomiting?” At Barry’s nod, Doc Natu uttered a noise of disgust. “Barbarians. You must never use emetics to treat cholera. It only makes it worse. It’s the dehydration that kills.” 

Barry held his tongue. The doctor seemed to realize that she’d misstepped. 

“My apologies. You couldn’t have been expected to know.” 

“No, I couldn’t. But you’re right. I wish we’d known better, all of us. Some lives might have been saved.” 

The doctor was quiet for a spell. “This seems a pleasant place to live,” she remarked briskly, and Barry welcomed the change in topic.

“Do you mean to settle here?” It would be a boon having a physician nearby. 

“We leave once the roads are passable. I don’t intend to settle anywhere.” 

“A traveling doctor,” Barry mused, pondering the idea. Well, if they could have traveling preachers, it was fit to reason that a physician could do the same. “Quite a life.” 

“It suits me,” she said firmly, and then she seemed to hesitate. “It is. . . difficult for Iolande. She struggles with the language and the customs here, and I know she is. . . lonely, at times. I am often at work. It’s a great deal to ask of her, to spend a life on the road.” 

“Seems to me it must be worth it to her,” Barry said, and they’d finished their coffee in silence as the doctor chewed that over. 

There was a stirring of excitement from the cart-bed, and Barry shook himself from his reverie, following Wally’s pointing finger. Down in the valley, the Garricks’ home blazed with light. They’d strung lanterns all across the porch, their luminous glow burning through the morning mist like stars. 

Barry smiled, feeling warm despite the crispness of the air. He’d spent every Christmas since his father died with the Garricks. It was a tradition he treasured. It hadn’t stopped when he’d married Iris, and once Wally had come into his care, it had seemed even more important to uphold. It was a spot of celebration in the gloom of winter, a much-needed reprieve from the cloistered confines of the farmhouse.

Initially, he had been concerned that Hal might not wish to come along, as someone who didn’t celebrate Christmas. But Hal was eager to see the Garricks again, and everyone was looking forward to their first excursion in three months. They would stay the night and return home the next morning, provided that the weather was still relatively clear. 

Barry guided Arkillo around the back of the house to the stables. It would be easiest to unload the cart and put up the horses first. It took some maneuvering, and some placating of the younger, antsier members of their party, but between all of them, they got the horses penned and the wagon emptied. Everyone grabbed a package or valise, and Wally led the march back around to the front door. 

The door opened before they’d gotten up the porch stairs, and Joan and Jay were there to usher everyone into the warmth of the house. 

“Merry Christmas, Missus Joan!” Wally practically tore off his coat in his hurry to throw himself into Joan’s arms. “I missed you!” 

“Not as much as I’ve missed you! Merry Christmas to you, darling. I’ve a special surprise for you boys. Look what’s on that tray there.” She drew back far enough to direct Wally’s attention to the spread of fruit tarts and puddings cooling by the windowsill. Near the front was a row of tiny pies, their golden-brown crust crimped with precision. 

“Mince pies,” Wally cried. He tugged on Joan’s hand. “You made them for me?”

“Of course I did, poppet.” 

Barry smiled. Last year, Wally had read a story about Christmas in England. For some reason, he’d been extremely taken by an illustration of Queen Victoria’s banquet table, especially the fancy tiered platter of mincemeat pies. Barry had explained that the pies were made with venison and he might not like the taste, but his nephew had fixated on the idea of them. It seemed that Joan had remembered Wally’s longing to try them. 

“I love them!” Wally enthused. 

“You ain’t even tasted ‘em yet,” Jay chuckled. 

“I don’t care. They look just like the picture.” He embraced Joan’s legs and then hopped over to hug Jay. “Thank you!”

Kyle was much fussed over too. Jay declared that he must have grown a full foot since they saw him last, which seemed to please Kyle tremendously. There was a proud tilt to his chin as he handed over his coat for Hal to hang.

“Thanks for havin’ us, Joan,” Hal said, and he kissed her hand with feigned ceremony. “I declare, you’re pretty as a petunia.”

Joan dimpled, patting at her silvery hair, which had been braided festively with sprigs of cherry-red holly. “Oh, stop it, you,” she tittered. “Scoundrel.” She shooed him down the hall. “Now where’s the one married to this irascible flirt?” Barry stepped up to press a kiss to her powdered cheek, and then she held him at arm’s length, studying him with a steely eye. “How are you, darling? You look hale--” She patted his waist. “--if a little skinny. We need to put some meat on those bones.” 

“I’m entirely recovered,” Barry assured her. It had taken several weeks of rest and a strict diet to have his health restored to him, but he bore no permanent ill effects from his ordeal beyond an instinctive thrill of anxiety when he couldn’t immediately find Wally in the house. 

“Thank the good Lord for that,” Jay said, and then he noticed the last two guests lingering uneasily by the door. “Ah! You must be the doc who saved our friends. Welcome, welcome!” 

Introductions were made all around. Doc Natu seemed somewhat uncomfortable with all the effusions of gratitude and probing questions before she’d even removed her cloak, but she answered graciously enough. 

“A Frenchwoman, eh?” Jay said, as he shook Iolande’s hand. To Barry’s astonishment, he rattled off a string of what was probably butchered patois, but Iolande’s expression of polite interest blossomed into delight. She clasped Jay’s hands in both of hers and replied in an burst of rapid French. Doc Natu looked surprised, or at least as surprised as she ever looked, which wasn’t very. 

“I didn’t know he spoke French,” Barry remarked to Joan in an undertone. 

“Oh, he learned when he worked at the racetrack. The owner and half the staff were New Orleans natives. Monsieur Fontenot was a fine old gentleman and very good to Jay. He even gave me tips on the best horses to bet on. I do wonder whatever happened to him.” Joan turned back to Barry, and then her eyes slid past him. “Ah, Mister Gardner! Forgive me for being rude, dear. How do you do?”

It was apparently a winter of miracles indeed, because Guy wished her a happy Christmas with subdued sincerity, his hat crumpled in his hands. He looked about as polished up as Barry had ever seen him, his shirt unstained and his hair slicked back. Apparently Guy could be bothered to remember his manners when he was dining in the home of a proper lady. 

With reunions aside, it was time to work. The whole of the morning would be spent cooking. For all of Joan’s beliefs in the importance of etiquette, she was at heart a pragmatic woman, and it was impossible that she and Jay could prepare such a large banquet by themselves at their age. Jay had already killed and plucked the Christmas goose, but there was plenty to be done. Everyone applied themselves to their appointed tasks without a grumble. Iolande and Doc Natu were, as special guests, excused from labor, but they insisted on lending a hand, so they were given charge of preparing the vegetables. Kyle and Wally were set in the corner with a big bowl of walnuts to shuck. 

Joan was the quartermaster of her kitchen, directing them all with the orderliness of decades of practice and the confidence of a decorated colonel. Barry poured out some of the apple cider he’d brought along, and they talked and laughed among themselves as they worked. He got the goose ready for stuffing while Hal conferred with Joan to ensure that the breadcrumb dressing he’d mixed together had passed muster. 

“It’ll do,” Joan decided, and Hal cut Barry a very amused glance from over her head. “And Wally, darling, you’re doing a lovely job, but please do make sure more walnuts end up in the bowl than in your mouth.”

It didn’t take long for the Garricks’ large kitchen to smell wonderfully of spice and broiling meat. Itty stuck to Hal’s heels like a limpet in the hopes of scraps. By the time most everything was prepared and the goose was cooking, there was little to be done but rest on their laurels and wait for dinner. Conversation meandered back and forth, and everyone’s spirits were high. 

“I know what we need, Joanie,” Jay said suddenly. “Music!”

He went into the adjoining open parlor to uncover their gramophone. Kyle, who had never heard one before, came over to watch Jay attentively as he set the needle and allowed Wally to begin cranking the handle. Jay had chosen a quick-paced orchestral waltz that Barry didn’t recognize. He had never had much of an ear for music. 

Hal and Guy were about as fascinated by the gramophone as Kyle was. “Never saw one of those before,” Hal confirmed, when Barry said as much. “I heard about them, though, and John and I caught a demonstration of a phonograph once. Ain’t that something, Bar? What’ll they think of next?”

Kyle took his turn at the crank next, and Wally went from tapping his foot to the music to spinning in circles. Iolande put aside her drink and offered Wally her hand with a graceful curtsey, and soon she was leading him in a clumsy but enthusiastic waltz. Jay swept Joan up, despite her protests that her hands were still covered in who-knew-what. Barry was watching them with a smile. He felt Hal’s fingers curl into the crook of his elbow. 

“Come on,” Hal coaxed. “You owe me one.” 

“But dinner---”

“It’ll keep,” Hal said, and Barry let himself be pulled out into the parlor. 

Soon enough, the groaning table was laid with a roast goose with oyster dressing, broiled quail, fresh bread with plum and crab-apple jelly, mashed potatoes with suet gravy, baked winter squash, a cold pickled herring salad, beets and carrots stewed in sweet cream, and a beautiful tray of sliced hot-house pears, cheese, raisins, and walnuts, all drizzled generously with honey. 

As he did every year, Jay had brewed a special drink for the toasts. He was always good for whipping up hot toddies, but his _piece de resistance_ was an enormous copper pot of his Christmas mulled wine, flavored with orange peel and cloves and cinnamon sticks and the rare handful of star anise, along with copious amounts of sugar. 

The wine was served in Joan’s best crystal punch glasses. After some hemming and hawing, Barry allowed the boys to have cups of their own, heavily diluted with water.

“To surviving another winter,” Jay offered wryly. 

Guy snorted. “Here, here. To a quick end to all this blasted snow.” 

“To new unions,” Joan said, smiling at Barry and Hal. “To peace and prosperity for us all.” 

“To good health,” Barry said. 

“To Itty! And mince pies!” Wally declared, and everyone laughed. 

“To the good fortune of friends new and old,” Doc Natu said, tipping her glass to Barry with a rare flicker of a smile. Iolande made a brief toast of her own, which the doctor translated: “To the spirit of joy.”

Kyle seemed unsure, but after a moment’s thought he took his turn. “To everybody we miss the most, who can’t be here with us.”

There was a pause before Joan reached across the table to press Kyle’s hand and say quietly, “That was lovely, dear.” As one, the table hefted their wine solemnly and drank. 

Hal took his time choosing his toast as well. “To spring and new beginnings,” he finally said, to murmurs of approval, and as they drank, he caught Barry’s gaze over the rim of his cup. 

Barry’s face felt hot. Wine always did go straight to his head. 

By the end of dessert, he felt that he could hardly move. Somehow he managed to follow everyone into the parlor, where Joan passed out cups of steaming coffee, and he stretched out next to Hal on a plush chaise. Iolande and Jay were talking in front of the fireplace, but everyone else was quiet, tuckered out from their overindulgences. Full of good food and thoroughly content, Barry sank back into the cushion and sipped his coffee. Guy was already half-asleep in the rocking chair, and every so often, Doc Natu’s chin would sink down to her chest before she jerked herself awake again. Distantly, Barry was aware that Hal and Joan began conversing softly, but he let their words wash over him, feeling the warmth of Hal’s arm across the back of the chaise. 

Wally was sprawled on the rug, playing happily with his new toy soldiers, and while Kyle was a bit old for games of pretend, he patiently helped Wally line them up to be marched. Barry usually purchased toys from the Dibnys’ catalog, but this year’s gift had been homemade. Guy had spent hours carving the small figures, and Barry and Hal had painted and lacquered them together on lazy evenings once Wally was safely asleep. 

Kyle’s present, a set of watercolors and some brushes, had been easier -- if more expensive -- to acquire. Barry hadn’t expected any gifts for himself, beyond the usual bits and bobs that Wally liked to wrap up for him to open -- this year, it had been a collection of pretty rocks that Wally had painstakingly collected from the creek -- but he’d decided to give a present to Hal. He hadn’t wanted to make Hal feel obliged, but there was a pair of unused moccasins in the steamer trunk that he thought might fit a treat. They had been an extravagant courting gift from Iris, and Barry had never had the heart to tell her that they were too small for his feet. In any case, they were handsome, made of buttery soft leather and perfect for wearing indoors on cold days. He’d had to reattach a few of the colorful beads that had come loose, but otherwise they were still in excellent condition. 

Before they’d gone to bed last night, he’d brought the slippers out from where he had hidden them under the bureau. Hal teased Barry about his preoccupation with the health of Hal’s toes, even now that they’d healed from the chilblains, but he’d put the slippers on right away and seemed to like them. 

“Never wore anything so fancy,” he said, popping up one foot where he sat on the bed to admire the delicate beadwork. “They’re warm too, and soft as anything. Thank you.”

Barry had waved away his gratitude, embarrassed. He’d been surprised in his turn when Hal had gone over to the nightstand and retrieved a slip of paper from one of the primers they were practicing with. 

“I don’t have your gift yet, and it won’t come ‘til the mail routes open in the spring.” He offered the folded scrap to Barry. It took him a moment to recognize it as the newspaper announcement for the Metropolis Scientific Symposium that he’d saved months before. 

“Found it in your pocket while I was doin’ the washing,” Hal said sheepishly. “I had Guy read it to me, and I got to thinkin’ about how you said you missed your studies. So I had Kyle write to this Professor Palmer to request a ticket for you. And if you’re frettin’ about the cost, Guy agreed to put some of his money up for the water pump, so there’s enough to spare for your travel and good lodging.”

“Oh, Hal, I couldn’t. I -- I would have to be gone for a fortnight, at least.” 

“I know. I’ll look after the boys, and me and Guy will take care of the farm while you’re gone. We already talked it over.” 

“What on Earth did you bribe him with?”

Hal laughed. “Nothing I didn’t mind partin’ with.”

Barry rubbed his thumb over the faded newsprint. “I don’t know what to say.” 

“Say ‘why, thank you, Hal, I’ll be plumb delighted to go.’”

The next thing he knew, Barry blinked awake. The light had changed a little, and it took him a moment to realize that he’d dozed off on the chaise. Someone had taken his coffee out of his hands. 

The scene hadn’t altered much. Iolande and Jay were still chatting by the fire, the boys were still playing on the floor, and Hal’s arm was still slung behind his back. He looked over at Hal, wiping at his mouth and hoping that he hadn’t been snoring. 

“You weren’t out long,” Hal murmured. “Just a few minutes.” 

Barry nodded, turning back to the conversation. Joan had settled herself down on the carpet to join the boys’ game. She was talking to them about the presents they’d gotten that morning and reminiscing about her favorite toys as a young girl. 

“These really are the most remarkable figures, Mister Gardner,” Joan said, examining the soldier in her hand. “You’ve quite a talent.” 

There was a creak as Guy shifted his bulk in the rocking chair. “Well, thank you, ma’am. It’s just somethin’ I do to keep my hands occupied. Nothin’ special about it.” 

“Guy carved a jewelry box for the nice tailor lady, but he hasn’t given it to her yet,” Kyle said. He sounded innocent enough, but Barry saw him exchange a mischievous glance with Hal. 

Guy reddened. “Hush, you.” 

But of course, that had piqued the Garricks’ curiosity. Like all happy old married couples, they took an untoward interest in any hint of blossoming romance among the unmarried younger people. “Sparkin’ with the tailor lady, eh?” Jay chuckled, and the full force of Joan’s attention was now fixed on Guy, who was starting to look rather hunted. 

“Miss Olafsdotter is a lovely girl. A bit shy, perhaps, but you’d be hard pressed to find a kinder soul. How old are you, Guy?”

“Uh. . . “

“He’s thirty-three,” Hal offered. 

“She’s just turned twenty-seven. You’re not too old for her, I think.” Joan cocked her head, looking Guy over in an evaluating fashion. “Hmm. You’re a hearty fellow, aren’t you -- strong and with fine, pleasant features, and you’re so good with the children. You’ve a comfortable enough living too, now that you work at Barry’s farm. I could invite you both to tea in the spring, if you need a way to propose.”

Guy sputtered, looking poleaxed. “Now hold on, I ain’t----Ma’am, I hardly spoke to the gal----”

Maybe it was the wine, or the roguish sparkle in Hal’s eye, but Barry found himself saying, “She asked him to dance at the harvest fair.” 

Joan’s gaze sharpened. “Well now! Isn’t that interesting? A very good sign.” 

“Ma’am-----”

“It’s difficult to court in the winter, of course, but perhaps you could bring her the jewelry box on a special errand. Write her a tender letter to put inside it. Jay wrote me the most charming love letters when we were courting. They’re a sure way to a lover’s heart, mark my words.” 

“Ma’am-----”

“Don’t know that he’s much of a writer, but he’s got a fine singing voice,” Hal piped up. “A regular troubadour. Music is the food of love, don’t they say?”

If looks could kill, Hal would be six feet under in his Sunday best. 

“Now, let’s not harass the poor fella,” Jay chided. “Perhaps in the spring, eh, Guy? Folks are always in a courtin’ mood in the spring.” 

The rest of the afternoon was whiled away indolently, at least until someone got it in their head to pass out another round of mulled wine, with mugs of warm chocolate for the boys. 

“I’m going to have a headache,” Barry sighed, even as he accepted a cup. 

“I think that’s the idea,” Hal said. “It ain’t a proper holiday if you’re not beggin’ God for mercy the next morning.” 

To amuse themselves, the adults played round after round of poker at the kitchen table, betting for the leftover tea-cakes. The boys had fallen asleep in the parlor, and more wine was poured. As it turned out, Guy was a surprisingly docile drunk. Iolande was red-faced, giggling with every bad hand she played, and even the doctor was unbent enough to crow in triumph when she swept the pot for herself. Joan and Jay hadn’t indulged quite as much, but Barry knew Joan had to be at least a little tipsy, because when she lost, she swore a blue streak that raised the hair on the back of his neck. It sent everyone else into gales of laughter. 

Barry switched back to coffee when he began to find it difficult to remember which game they were playing. After the next round, he threw in his cards and begged off to observe instead. Hal followed suit, and they sat watching companionably for a while. Barry smiled as Doc Natu -- evidently a secret card sharp -- won yet again, and then he jerked as Hal’s hand settled on his knee under the table. 

He glanced over at Hal, who was staring at him with a twinkle in his eye. The hand slid upward, pressing questioningly. Barry swallowed, not looking away. Hal’s fingers began drifting further up his thigh, kindling heat low in his gut. 

Hal stole his coffee and took a long drink, gazing over the rim as his lips lingered on the ceramic. The pink of his tongue darted out to lick a few stray drops just as his fingertips brushed the curve of Barry’s hip. The arousal flared so hotly that Barry stood up with far too much haste. 

“Outside,” he blurted. “Ahem, pardon me. I think I indulged a bit too much. I’m going outside to take in some air, take a walk.” He prayed he wasn’t too flushed. 

“I will too,” Hal said smoothly, as Barry had hoped he would. 

“Bring your coats,” Joan said. “It’s chilly.” 

Somehow, they managed to get themselves in their toggery and out the door without embarrassing themselves. As soon as the door was shut, Hal snatched up his hand and began leading him around the back of the house. Barry let himself be led. All he wanted was to be alone with Hal.

They stole across the yard like naughty children, snickering and hushing each other when they lost their footing in the snow. Barry couldn’t have cared less where Hal was bringing him. He was preoccupied with the fact that his hands, as if by their own will, kept wandering to Hal’s backside, patting around his hips and dipping down to cup those ripe firm curves in his britches. He could practically feel the heat of Hal’s skin through his clothes. He wanted to tear it all off, feast his eyes on how Hal’s body looked in the soft white winter light. 

They ended up in the stables, yanking at each other’s shirts as they looked for an empty stall that would suit. Barry found one at the very end of the row -- the flagstones were padded with clean hay and would do well enough. The horse in the next stall gave them an inquisitive look as they tumbled inside, closing the door hurriedly behind themselves. 

Hal was breathing hard where he’d landed in the hay, his wide eyes shining and a ruddy flush crawling up his cheeks. Barry flopped down and kissed him, hurrying to unbutton his shirt and open the placket of his trousers. The surge of desire was so overwhelming it was as if he’d never made love to Hal before. He was almost jittery with the hunger of anticipation, his palms sweating. It felt, in that moment, that he’d never wanted anything so badly. 

He knew Hal’s body almost as well as his own now. He knew how Hal liked to be touched, how their bodies fit together, how he shivered when he was gently bitten just under his chin. Time seemed to stretch honey-slow before he finally nosed his way down to the nest of dark hair at the apex of Hal’s thighs. Hal writhed like a wild thing, but Barry kept him pinned, determined to please him. He suckled until he felt Hal’s body seize under him, his cries so loud that a horse whickered nervously nearby. 

Drained and winded, Hal still looked hungry. His eyes were heavy-lidded and nearly black. Barry kissed his open, panting mouth until they were both moaning again; he couldn’t resist stroking the softening length of him, and Hal’s full-body shudder sent a frisson of pleasure down his own spine. He bit and licked at Hal’s neck until Hal grabbed his hair and dragged him up for another kiss. 

Hal’s fingers plucked insistently at his trousers only to be stymied by the suspenders. “Want these off,” he rasped, sounding determined. “Want you. _Now_.” 

Barry scrambled to obey. He got to his feet to unbutton his flies with hands so eager that he hardly managed. He had just an instant to feel a fool, standing there fully-dressed with his unmentionables hanging out, before Hal grabbed at him and rolled him onto his back. 

Hal pleasured him with a single-minded focus. Groaning, Barry leaned back against the stall door and stroked Hal’s hair as he was tended to. He let himself glory in the feeling, forgetting where they were and how they’d gotten there, uncaring about who would notice they were gone or who might suspect why. He forgot about the smell of the horses, the itchiness of the hay sticking against his skin, the chill of the packed stone floor. He forgot about why he ought to be inside, ensuring that Wally didn’t give himself a stomachache from too many sweets or watching that Guy was minding his manners with Joan and the ladies. There was only Hal, and his mouth, and the deep brown of his eyes as he held Barry’s entranced gaze. 

Hal’s nimble tongue made short work of him, especially when his fingers slipped down further between Barry’s legs to tease in a way that always had him heating up and spending himself much too soon. Hal’s throat bobbed, but he stayed there obligingly until the last quivers of pleasure faded from Barry’s body before he turned and spat into the hay. 

He wiped his mouth and offered a kiss, which Barry gladly accepted. He could taste himself on Hal’s tongue, stronger than the wine, and his belly clenched with want again. 

They lay down together to catch their breath. Barry rubbed his cheek against Hal’s chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heartbeat. They stayed that way for a long time, stuporous and satisfied. Finally, Hal stirred, but instead of rolling away, he inched closer. A delicious shiver skittered down Barry’s spine at the tentative touch of Hal’s fingers under his shirt, stroking against the small of his back. 

“Now watch your step, ladies! The stones can get a mite slick in the snow.”

Barry’s eyes popped open. Good God. That was Jay’s voice. 

“Yes, we’ve had two more foals. Pretty things, a brindle and a little paint mare. How long did your pa keep his stables, did you say, Doc?”

Hal had tensed under him, and Barry, feeling suddenly much too sober, was as frozen as a hare cornered by a fox. He could hear three distinct sets of footsteps, coming from the front entrance down the stable-row. A lantern flared to life somewhere behind them. In a flash, Hal was up on his knees, tugging on his clothes and hauling Barry up off the hay. 

He pointed toward the back door that led out into the paddock. Barry stuffed himself hastily back into his trousers and followed Hal out of the stall, both of them crouching low to the ground. He dared a single glance back as they crawled away. Jay was over by the door still, showing Doc Natu and Iolande the pen where the foals were kept, and thank the Lord, they were all facing the other way. 

They hadn’t gotten halfway back to the house before Hal started cackling. Barry ought to have been mortified, but once he got to laughing himself he couldn’t stop. He kept thinking of the absurd picture they must have made: two grown men crawling guiltily on the floor with their tails between their legs. He laughed so hard he could scarcely see, wiping the tears helplessly from his eyes as he ran.

Lingering outside the door, they did their best to stifle their chuckles and hide the evidence of their little indiscretion. Barry smiled as he re-buttoned Hal’s shirt correctly. Hal licked his fingers and combed Barry’s hair back down. Nothing could be done about the lingering blushes on their faces, but at least that could be chalked up to the cold air and the alcohol.

After shedding their coats, they found Joan alone in the kitchen, fanning herself. She glanced up as they came inside. “There you are. Jay took the ladies to the stables to show off, but Guy and I were thinking that we might follow your lead and take the boys for a long walk. There’s cold meat and cheese if you’re hungry.”

“I don’t think I could eat another bite if I tried,” Barry said. “Do you mind if I make some tea?” With her assent, he put some water to boil, and Hal excused himself to visit the privy. 

“Barry,” Joan said after a period of comfortable silence, “may I ask you a personal question?”

Barry stiffened, a wash of embarrassment suffusing his body. Good Lord, could Joan tell? He felt as if he were fifteen years old again, called to the carpet because he’d been caught kissing Iris in the garden. He’d certainly been acting like a fifteen year old, sneaking off with Hal like that. How could he explain himself? Perhaps if he apologized. . . . “Joan----”

“I’m sorry, my dear. You’re rather like a son to me and Jay, and you have to know how fond we are of you. Your own mother, bless her, isn’t here to ask it, and I hope you won’t take it amiss, but I feel the need to know. Are you happy?”

Barry blinked. “What? Oh. I. . . ” He quieted and stared back at her, only now absorbing the question, and what it meant. “Yes, I think. . . I am, yes.” 

Joan’s smile was soft. “I thought so. I’m so very glad.”

Barry’s mouth had gone dry. He didn’t know what to say. The kettle began to whistle, and as if it were a trumpet heralding his arrival, Guy barged into the kitchen with Kyle and Wally in tow. 

“We’re ready to go,” Wally announced. One of his boots was only half-laced, so Barry came over to fix it and then wished them all a pleasant walk.

“Thank you, dear,” Joan said. “You and Hal enjoy yourselves.”

Barry cut a wary glance at her, but she didn’t seem to have meant anything sly by it; she was already ushering the boys out of the kitchen to fetch their coats. He relaxed, pouring himself a cup of tea, and then he heard Guy laugh. It was a smug, insufferable laugh that set his teeth on edge. Before he could turn around, he felt Guy’s hand at his back, snapping one of his suspenders. 

He yelped. 

Guy held up his hand, a piece of straw pinched between his thumb and forefinger. “Here’s some advice for you, Allen: next time you get tupped in a barn, shake out your britches after.”

* * *

* * *


	7. The Bounty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spring arrives, and so does trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ WARNINGS FIRST!
> 
> Chapter warnings: language, period-typical sexism, murder, past (nonsexual) abuse of a minor by an adult (including physical abuse, emotional abuse, manipulation, grooming, stalking, and a brief reference to torture), and internalized victim-blaming. 
> 
> With this laundry list of unpleasant topics, please feel free to contact me on tumblr at hipsterdarcy. I’ll be happy to message you a non-explicit summary of the content. 

* * *

_The Bounty_

* * *

* * *

“Well, well, looks like somebody’s soft down on Miss Troy.” 

It took Barry a moment to glance up from his coin purse, occupied as he was with fishing out another dime. After he’d slid it across the counter, he followed Ralph’s gaze out the storefront window, where Kyle and Donna were playing jacks on the boardwalk. “Puppy love,” he agreed, thinking fondly of his own boyhood fancies. He vividly remembered the feeling of being too big for his body, the nervous excitement of having longings that he wasn’t quite yet capable of understanding.

“It's the season for it.” There was a wistful look in Ralph’s eyes, and Barry reckoned that he was reminiscing about youthful escapades too. “What is it about spring that makes us all into lovesick fools?” 

“It’s right after a long, lonely winter, that’s what.” 

Ralph chortled, sweeping the pile of coins into his cash box. “Aye, I suppose it is, at that.” 

“Besides, it’s not even spring proper yet,” Barry pointed out. “Unless you think an early thaw qualifies. I'd wager on another deep snow before March.” 

Ralph gave him a look. “Don’t go sayin’ that, or we will, and then we’ll all know who to blame for it.” He stacked the sachets of tea Barry had purchased on the counter and began wrapping them with butcher’s paper. “Kyle’s shot up like a weed. I almost didn’t recognize him when you came into church.”

“They do tend to sprout fast, you know,” Barry said, and then he spared a moment to wish he’d phrased it differently. Ralph didn’t know. He and Sue both longed for children, and their inability to conceive over the years had been a source of no little pain, as private as they kept it. “In any matter, Kyle will grow into his feet soon enough. Then he can wait on Donna all he likes. She’s a good girl.” 

Ralph shrugged. “He better not leave it too long, though. A headstrong lass like her ain’t gonna sit around for any beau. Did you hear she’s been pesterin’ Sheriff Prince to take her on as a deputy?”

“Can’t fault her for her ambition,” Barry said. “She’s not even thirteen, is she?”

“That’s what the sheriff told her. Give her another five years, though, and she’ll be a force to be reckoned with. Is your wagon out back? I’ll have one of the lads load your packages up for you.” 

Barry thanked him, and when Ralph asked if there were any other sundries he wanted, he dipped back into his pocket for a few more pennies. “Add in some lemon drops, would you? Those are Hal’s favorite.” 

With his bill settled and one of Ralph’s helpers loading the groceries, Barry lingered in the open doorway to observe Kyle and Donna. 

Kyle always accompanied Barry and Wally to church on Sundays now, mostly so he could see Donna there. They’d developed a marked preference for each other’s company, though Barry didn’t believe it was anything worth worrying about yet. Neither of them were of an age to be thinking about courting, and there was nothing noticeably improper in their behavior beyond having simply taken a shine to each other. Even now, their game seemed little more than two children playing -- their nice church clothes were powdered with dirt where they’d carelessly sprawled across the dusty steps. Kyle was chewing on his thumbnail as he pondered his strategy, and the red silk bow in Donna’s hair had come half-undone. 

Barry stepped out onto the boardwalk, attracting their attention. “The shopping’s done, Kyle. I’m going to swing by the telegraph office, but I’ll be back in a tick. Hello, Donna.” 

“Hi, Mister Allen! Guess what happened?” She grinned at him before opening her mouth wide and pointing at the gaping hole where one of her molars had been. “My last baby tooth fell out yesterday. Ma said it was the stubbornest one.” 

Barry smiled. “Well, isn’t that exciting? Did you keep it?”

“I put it in my jewelry box. I have all my other teeth too, ‘cept the one I swallowed.” 

Kyle pulled a face. “What did you do that for?”

“It wasn’t on _purpose_ ,” Donna giggled. “You never lost a tooth while you were sleepin’ and figured you must’ve swallowed it?”

“I did,” Barry said, amused. 

Donna looked triumphant. “See?”

“I dunno. I don’t remember losing all of mine. Maybe.” Kyle scratched his head, seeming perturbed by the idea that he might have consumed his own teeth without being aware of it. 

Chuckling under his breath, Barry left them to their discussion and strolled down to the Western Union office. He opened the door only to collide with someone rushing out, somebody big and bulky enough to send him reeling back a few steps before a strong hand steadied him. 

“Blast, Barry, I’m sorry! My eyes were open, but I wasn’t using ‘em.” 

Barry straightened his hat where it had tipped down his forehead. “It’s alright, Clark. No harm done. I didn’t realize you were in town, or I would’ve said hello.” 

“Oh, I didn’t go to the service today,” Clark said. “Had some business elsewhere.” 

Barry finally got a good look at him and was immediately concerned. Clark was flustered, a ruddy flush high on his cheeks, and his hatless head was unkempt, as if he’d been running his hands thoughtlessly through his hair. Barry glanced down at the telegram paper the other man was holding before Clark’s fist hastily clenched, engulfing it.

Well. That was certainly odd, but Clark’s business was his business and nobody else’s. “How are your ma and pa?” 

Clark looked relieved, but his strangling grasp on his telegram didn’t loosen, and he indulged Barry in only the most perfunctory small talk before he was excusing himself. “I’m sorry for bein’ rude, but I really do have to shake a leg. Take care now.” 

Hardly even waiting for Barry to respond, he trotted down the boardwalk with the awkward pace of a man who wanted to be running but was trying not to. 

_Curiouser and curiouser_ , Barry thought. Brushing it off, he stepped into the telegraph office to greet the clerk. 

He had received his ticket for the Metropolis Scientific Symposium several weeks ago, but it had been accompanied by an unexpected letter from the august Professor Palmer himself, who, as it turned out, had been acquainted with Barry’s father. In light of this connection, Palmer extended an invitation to stay in his home for the duration of the conference instead of lodging at a hotel. Barry had dawdled over accepting, though Hal urged him to take advantage of the opportunity; Palmer was a well-respected scholar and would likely be an interesting host. It was, in addition, a chance to meet someone who had known his father.

Barry accepted a telegram pad and a stub of a pencil from the clerk and composed his brief message carefully, accepting Palmer’s kind invitation and expressing his eagerness to become acquainted with him over the course of the symposium. When he was finally satisfied with it (having wasted two cards and crossed out almost as many lines as he’d written) he handed it over to the clerk, paid, and left to fetch Kyle. 

They passed a pleasant journey home. With the question of whether he’d swallowed any of his teeth still clearly on his mind, Kyle idly asked Barry whether he’d ever broken any bones. Barry told the story of how he’d snapped his collarbone as a boy falling out of a high tree that Ralph had dared him to scale. Somehow, the topic turned to medical curiosities from there. Barry regaled him with the most grotesque of the cases he could recall from his father’s few medical texts, and Kyle listened attentively, both revolted and thrilled. He’d taken quite an interest in medicine since Doc Natu’s arrival, even shyly asking to borrow one of her anatomy books to practice his figure drawing. 

“I don’t see how anybody can survive having their arms and legs cut off,” Kyle mused after hearing an explanation of what battlefield surgeons did in the field. “Do you think Miss Sora’s ever had to saw off anybody’s leg?” 

“I couldn’t say, but that’s a question that’s kinder left unasked, Kyle. I don’t imagine that’s the sort of thing a doctor likes remembering.” 

“I guess not.” Kyle folded his elbows across his knees and reached out to snap off a thin branch from a low-hanging tree as the wagon passed by. He held the switch out, brushing it through the tall grass as they rode on. 

Barry watched him from the corner of his eye. Along with his new height, Kyle’s moods were now liable to blow about like the wind, mercurial and in a constant state of change. Over the last few months, he’d begun to dip occasionally into little bouts of melancholy that bordered on sullenness. It was to be expected at this tender age, but Guy had expressed some concern about it in his own gruff way. Apparently Kyle’s mother had been prone to low spirits. 

“Everybody thinks I’m sweet on Donna, don’t they?” 

Barry blinked, taken aback by both the abruptness of Kyle’s statement and his hostile tone. The next second, the boy looked sheepish, picking at a patch of dirt on his trousers. “Sorry. I heard you and Mister Dibny talking about us.” 

“I”ll have a word with Ralph,” Barry said, after a moment. “We didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable with our teasing, Kyle, but I apologize.” 

Kyle just nodded. They were quiet for quite a while before he said, “Donna’s my best friend. I do like her an awful lot.” There was another pregnant pause. “Barry, may I ask you a question?”

 _Blast_. Barry bit his lip. He very much didn’t want to give a lesson on the birds and the bees today -- he’d much rather leave it up to Hal, or even Guy, who could, at least, be trusted to give a blunt, forthright account. Still, he couldn’t refuse to answer if Kyle had questions, nor did he want the boy to be ashamed of wanting to indulge a perfectly natural curiosity. “Shoot.” 

“Do you think Wally’s mad at me?” 

Barry suppressed a sigh of relief. “What makes you say that?”

“I don’t know. I think I hurt his feelings yesterday because I didn’t want to play with him, and then he went and climbed up on the post and got hurt.”

“That’s not your fault,” Barry said firmly. “Wally made a choice to go climbing where he knew he shouldn’t. And he’s fine, Kyle. It’s only a little bump.” 

“I just wanted to be alone for a while,” Kyle admitted. He swished the stick again, the grass rippling around it like waves. “It gets so crowded in the house.” 

Barry was still considering that as Arkillo pulled them up the hill toward the farm. It was true that five people and a large, clumsy dog in a two-room cabin was a lot, and privacy was at a premium. The shed was still filled with a backlog of larder items and tools and wasn’t insulated enough to be a good shelter; as the weather warmed, Guy had taken to sleeping in the loft of the barn for some peace and quiet rather than bundling in with Kyle by the stove. Soon enough, both Wally and Kyle would be old enough to want rooms of their own. 

Perhaps it was time to seriously consider building on to the house. It would take time, labor, and a fair amount of money, but it wasn’t fair to any of them to stay cooped up this way. Barry resolved to discuss the matter with Hal and then have a look at their household ledger to see whether they could spare the necessary funds.

They pulled up by the porch. Wally ran out to meet them, hopping down the steps in his bare feet.

“You’re not supposed to be out of bed,” Barry chided. He swung down to reel Wally in and check the compress around his head. The swelling on his forehead had gone down considerably, leaving a yellowing bruise in its place.

“It doesn’t hurt anymore,” Wally complained, squirming out of Barry’s grasp. “Did you get any candy?”

“Yes, for _after_ supper.” 

Wally sighed, but he hugged Barry’s legs and then skipped back inside just as Hal was coming out. 

“You get everything we needed, Bar?” 

“Everything on the list.” Barry bent down to scritch Itty, who was snuffling around his boots. “Did you manage to keep Wally in bed at all?”

“An hour or two. Guy read him some stories, and I tried teachin’ him checkers.” 

“Tried?”

“He was more interested in flickin’ the checkers like tiddlywinks than he was in learnin’ the rules,” Hal chuckled. “He did sleep for a bit after lunch, though. His head looks a sight better.” 

“I saw.” 

Hal and Guy unloaded the groceries while Barry got Arkillo settled back in his stall. Arkillo was an ornery, tetchy old beast, but as they’d grown accustomed to each other, he’d seemed to realize that nobody was going to go after him with a whip, and he’d quit nipping at anyone who dared to reach for the saddle buckles at his belly. He wasn’t a suitable riding mount for Wally or Kyle, though, so eventually Barry would need to scare up the money to purchase another, gentler horse. He wasn’t likely to find one as sweet as Lightning had been, but that was the way things were; at least he’d been able to go out when the frost had broken to properly bury the old girl’s bones. 

With Arkillo fed and watered, Barry returned to the house. Hal had made a late lunch for Kyle and put on a kettle of coffee, a steaming cup already fixed with a dash of milk and honey, the way Barry preferred it. 

He thanked him as he blew on it to cool, and Hal leaned in for a peck. Barry tasted sour lemon and sugar on his lips. 

“You gonna give me a scolding for not waitin’ til after supper too, Mister Allen?” Hal asked pertly. 

Barry couldn’t help but respond to that sly curl of a grin, a lick of heat crawling up his neck. “I don’t know. Do you think that’s worth one?”

“I figure it’s at least a little naughty.”

“Jeezus God, spare me,” Guy grunted, pushing rudely between them to grab the kettle off the range to pour himself a cup. “You two’ll put a man off his feed. Now are you gonna help me muck out the barn or just make me puke, Jordan?”

Hal rolled his eyes. He stole the mug right out of Guy’s hands and struck out for the barn with the other man hot on his heels, their loud bickering cut off by the slam of the door. 

Barry smiled into his coffee.

***

Contrary to Barry’s pessimistic prognostications, the early thaw sustained itself as mid-March rolled in with nary a sign of snow. The weather was consistently warm and sunny, new buds arriving to join the hardy prairie grasses that survived the winter unscathed. 

The nights were mild enough now that Barry had taken to sitting on the porch for a spell after the boys had gone to bed. It was a chance to have a few moments to himself. The worries of the day always seemed less insurmountable after he’d looked out at the clear sky and all its luminous stars. 

This evening, he was tired enough that he stayed on the porch for only a quarter-hour or so before he gathered up his half-empty teacup and went back inside. 

He found Hal and Guy in a hushed conference at the table, their heads bent together over a piece of paper. Barry glanced at it as he latched the door. Guy’s crude penmanship was difficult enough to decipher at the best of times, but in dim lantern-light, the lines were little more than chicken-scratch, having been crossed out and scribbled over repeatedly. 

“Bar, settle somethin’ for us,” Hal said in an undertone, ignoring Guy’s indignant shushing noises. “If you were a gal, would you rather get some fusty old poem or a letter that’s actually half-sensible?”

Barry sat down with them, mindful of the sleeping boys nearby. “I don’t see how me being a woman would make any difference. I do like poetry.” 

“It’s for Miss Tora,” Hal said bluntly, and Guy covered his face with his hands. 

Barry almost felt sorry for him. “I’ll not say a word to anyone,” he promised. “Now what is this? A note for the jewelry box?”

Guy nodded begrudgingly. 

“And you want to write her a poem? Or do you want to find a poem to copy down for her?”

“Or you can forget the poem altogether,” Hal said, sounding exasperated. “Sparkin’ poetry is always soppy as hell. Who even likes it?” 

“I do! You don’t got no romantic bone in your body,” Guy hissed, and Barry had to set down his cup to marvel silently at this extraordinary development. 

“And I never met a woman who liked hearin’ sentimental dreck about her eyes bein' blue sapphires or her face glowing like the moon, or whatever the sam-hill. Just tell her in your own words that you’re sweet on her, Gardner. You don’t gotta borrow it from somebody else.” 

“Oh, forget it,” Guy growled, and he started to crumple up the paper. “This is stupid. She’s gonna laugh at me anyhow. I dunno what I been thinkin’. Idiot.” 

Hal didn’t look so amused anymore. “Guy,” he said, in a gentler voice. He rescued the crinkled paper and smoothed it down flat on the table. 

Recognizing that his presence likely wasn’t welcome now, Barry rose to check on the boys and put away the washed supper dishes. Behind him, the tone of Hal and Guy’s whispered conversation had grown quieter and more serious. He kept his nose out of it, but he still caught wind of it here and there as he tidied things up. 

“Come on now, you gotta be brave,” he heard Hal say softly. “It ain’t like it was before.” 

Barry let himself into the bedroom to change clothes and wash up for bed. He kept the lamp lit and read by its light until Hal came in about a half-hour later. 

“Is everything okay?” 

Hal’s smile had a shade of sadness to it. “It’s gettin’ there. He needs more time, is all.” 

They settled under the covers. Hal had brought a clean slate and some chalk to bed to practice his spelling. He had an easier time writing than he did reading; he said the letters didn’t get so jumbled up when he could write them out himself one-by-one instead of looking at them printed in a book.

Barry was proud of Hal’s progress. They’d found that half of his trouble with reading was getting overwhelmed by too many words in close proximity to each other. Barry had cut a thin strip out of the middle of a sheet of cardstock, and they used the little window to isolate each sentence by itself so that Hal only had to look at one or two lines at a time. It seemed to help him tremendously, and each day he grew more confident with it. 

Absorbed as he was in his book, Barry hardly stirred until he’d finished it several hours later. Only then did he realize that Hal had fallen asleep, his head pillowed on Barry’s stomach.

***

Barry was tilling the vegetable garden when Sheriff Prince arrived unannounced at the crack of dawn.

No one else in the house was even awake yet -- Barry had only come out here to work because he’d found himself unable to sleep and had figured that he might as well make himself useful. The sound of an approaching horse so early in the morning had captured his attention, but he’d supposed it was Doc Natu or maybe even Clark. The sight of the sheriff coming down the hill had been a genuine surprise. 

“Ma’am,” Barry said politely, as Sheriff Prince pulled her mare abreast and dismounted. He got up from his knees, dusting off his trousers, and shook her hand.

“I apologize for disturbing you so early,” she said. “I have a considerable favor to ask of you, and I must have your discretion.” 

Barry’s curiosity was piqued. He liked the sheriff very much, and respected her, and they’d always got on, but he hardly considered them to be confidantes. If there was anyone who filled that role for her, it was Clark or Barbara Ann or even Sue. He couldn’t imagine what he could offer her that they couldn’t, or why she would come to him for help over any of them. “Of course. You only need to name it, and I’ll see it done.” 

“You’re a good man, Barry." She turned around to unhook the pair of leather saddlebags behind her seat. “Take these.” 

Barry did. The saddlebags were heavy enough that he had to hold them with both hands. 

“You’re holding the sum of every important document from the town’s archives. Marriage licenses, birth announcements, death certificates, land deeds, leases, permits, everything. Everything is in there. I want you to hide them.” 

Barry stared at her. “Ma’am?” 

There was no smile on the sheriff’s face, no twitch or wry look that suggested that she was having some jest as his expense. “Hide them where no one else can find them. Tell no one -- not even me -- where you’ve put them. I hope it will not be necessary for you to keep them for more than a few weeks, but I fear I can’t promise that. Are you still willing to do this for me?”

“Of course.” Barry hefted the saddlebags slightly, feeling their considerable weight. Every important document the town had. . . . That was quite a responsibility indeed. “But might I ask why?”

The sheriff gave him a steely, probing look. There was a displeased twist to her mouth, and Barry wondered if the question had been too impertinent. But it was a dashed unconventional request, after all, and she had to know he’d be wondering why. 

After some contemplation, she peeled off one glove and wiped her forehead with a kerchief; she looked drawn and exhausted beneath the sweat, not quite up to her usual air of graceful composure. Barry would be willing to wager that she’d been up all night. “A reasonable question,” she acknowledged, tucking the kerchief back in her crimson vest. “This stays between us. You must not tell anyone, not even your husband. I found that I was misplacing small things, finding ledgers where I was certain I hadn’t put them, and the like, but I thought little of it. Then papers began to go missing for a few days before reappearing. I thought perhaps I was too disorganized. Yesterday morning, I discovered that someone attempted to jimmy open the lock on my desk.”

Barry glanced down at the bags. “And I suppose that’s where you keep these documents.”

“Someone has been stealing into the Assay building repeatedly to search my office, likely during the night. And it seems obvious to me that what they’re seeking is something in these records. I keep nothing else of value in that desk.”

“Do you know who might have done it?” It disturbed Barry to think that someone he knew might have broken into the sheriff’s office with wicked intent. 

“I intend to find out,” she said confidently, sounding more like herself. “In the meantime, can I trust you to protect these papers?”

“I would've thought you would ask Clark.” Barry regretted the comment as soon as it leapt off his tongue. “I’m sorry, that’s none of my beeswax. You have my word that I’ll take good care of them.”

“No, it's a fair question. Whoever has done this will soon find out that I’ve relocated the records. My friendship with Clark is widely known. I don’t believe it would occur to anyone that they would be hidden at your farm.” 

“Makes sense,” Barry agreed. 

“Yes. You have my gratitude for your help.” Sheriff Prince swung up onto her horse in one fluid heave, the conversation evidently over. She guided her mount around and then looked over her shoulder at him. “I’ll keep you abreast of any developments. Guard them well until I return.”

As soon as the sheriff was gone, Barry slung the saddlebags over his shoulder and returned to the house, a hiding place already in mind. He crept past the sleeping figures of Guy and Kyle and lifted the cellar door as quietly as he could. The slight creak woke Itty, but luckily she didn’t bark, simply watching him with inquiring eyes. He climbed down the ladder and went to open the steamer trunk. It took a little rearranging and some judicious use of a pair of scissors, but soon the oil-cloth wrapped papers were concealed inside the silk lining of the trunk. Anyone who was peering closely would notice the raised areas, but once Barry had laid the pieces of broken camera back inside, they were almost entirely hidden. It was about the safest place Barry could think of, and he latched the trunk with a degree of satisfaction. 

His task done, he closed the cellar door with no one the wiser except Itty, who wouldn’t be telling tales anyhow. He thought to go finish his tilling, but he could hear stirring from the bedroom and figured that Hal was awake. 

Hal _was_ awake, as it turned out, and a mite put-out to have woken up alone. 

“You leave a nice, warm bed with a nice, warm _me_ in it to go pokin’ around in the dirt?” Hal complained. His hair was mussed wildly against the pillow. It was growing long and badly needed a trim, but Barry rather liked the way it had started to curl around his ears. “I guess if that’s the kind of excitement that gets your blood pumpin’. . .but I swear you’d do better to get your excitement right here.”

“I reckon you’re right,” Barry agreed, and he let Hal reel him back into bed.

***

The rainstorm wasn’t letting up. 

Barry lifted the curtain to look out the kitchen window, frowning at the low, black clouds overhead. It had been raining for the better part of an hour now, and even for early April, violent rains like this were unusual. 

He let the flour-sack curtain fall back into place. At the table, Kyle was attempting to teach Wally how to use watercolors; Wally ended up with more paint on his fingers than on the paper, but Kyle was a patient instructor. 

Barry decided to join them in their artistic pursuits. There was little else to do. Afternoon chores would have to wait until the rain had stopped, the house was already scrubbed from nook to cranny, and he was too distracted for books today. He wouldn’t be entirely easy until everyone was back safely at home. He wasn’t particularly worried about Guy, who had taken Arkillo into town to Dibny’s Dry Goods (and most likely to the saloon as well), but Hal had traveled to the Garricks on foot, and Barry was concerned that he might have gotten caught in the cloudburst. He’d gone to bring home the mare they’d purchased: a fine, young Appaloosa that Jay said was mannerly and tolerant enough to ride well for Kyle and Wally. Wally in particular was eager to resume his riding lessons, though Barry had reminded him that the mare would need to settle in to her new home for a few weeks before they tried putting her through her paces.

Brushes in hand, the three of them passed around Kyle’s watercolor set, talking idly as they worked. Barry managed to produce something that he thought looked passably like a horse. Upon viewing the finished product, Kyle, who had painted a lovely scene of a brilliant orange sunrise over the farm, gave him a rather pitying look and patted his hand. Wally stared at for a few seconds and then asked if it was supposed to be an elephant. 

Well. Barry had never claimed to be a great artist. 

Wally was proudly putting the finishing touches on his own masterpiece when something heavy clattered up the porch; an instant later Guy stomped through the door, soaked down to his shoes. 

Barry started to get up. “Let me get a towe---”

“Come with me, Allen. _Now_.” 

Barry looked past the dripping water and saw that Guy looked . . . . well, Barry didn’t know what that expression meant, but it couldn't portend well. He grabbed for his own coat without hesitation, and when Kyle made to follow, Guy barked out a harsh, “Stay put,” that had him scrambling obediently back to his chair. 

“We’ll return soon,” Barry assured the boys. He tugged on his boots before following Guy into the beating rain. 

“What is it?” he asked, quickening his pace to keep up with Guy’s hurried strides as they splashed across the muddy yard. The rain lashed against his hatless head, water leaking rapidly into his socks. “For God’s sake, what’s wrong?”

Guy didn’t answer, putting a hand between Barry’s shoulder blades to shove him on faster until they’d tumbled into the barn. 

“What on earth is the matter?” Barry panted as Guy yanked the doors shut behind them. 

“I don’t want the boys hearin’,” he said, sounding almost angry. “It never came up afore but I’ve gotta know: you got a good gun in this place?”

“A gun?” Barry repeated, as if he’d misheard. “I’ve a hunting rifle, though I don’t use it much these days.”

“Where d’you keep your bullets? You got extra? You know anyone you can borrow another gun off of?”

“Wait, what’s all this talk for? What’s wrong?”

“They’ve found Hal.”

“What?”

“Are you deaf or just slow? I said they found him,” Guy snarled. “I was playin’ cards and havin’ a drink, and that dimwit Gold comes up and tells me that Hal’s favorite cousin is in town and is askin’ around after him.”

“I don’t----”

“You know he don’t have any cousins! The fella’s lodging upstairs at Gold’s, and I manage to peep a look at him when he comes down for a drink, and I never seen him before in my life. Why’re you gawpin’ at me like that? It’s plainer than the nose on my face what’s happened! It ain’t a goddamned coincidence that some stranger rides into this dirt-hole of a town sniffin’ around for Hal. They must’ve found the marriage license, ‘cause we didn’t tell nobody else where we was goin’.” Guy yanked an agitated hand through his hair. “Damn it all. I swear, we thought the bounty was canceled, or forgotten, or they gave up. It’s been years, it’s----”

“What bounty?”

Guy had gone very still. For a moment there was no sound but the puff of Arkillo’s breathing and the pounding water on the roof. “Uh. The. . . one on Hal’s head?”

A wash of shocking coldness that had nothing to do with the rain stole through Barry’s body. “ _Excuse_ me?”

“Oh, fuck. He ain’t told you a thing, did he?”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Shit. Shit, he’s gonna fuckin’ kill me.” Guy swiped his sleeve across his wet face and fumbled to pull a silver flash from the inner pocket of his coat. “I need a drink.”

“Guy Gardner, you tell me what you mean right now!” Barry cried. “What’s this about a bounty on Hal? What for?” 

“God, why is it always me? Look, you ask any sane person, it’s kidnapping, but the cunt who put it out says it’s for the return of stolen property.”

“What property?”

“Hal.” 

“I don’t----” Barry stiffened as it struck him. “The devil do you mean, Hal’s the _property?”_

Guy threw up his hands. “Damn it to hell. This ain’t right, it ain’t my place.”

Barry grasped his upraised arm, digging his fingernails hard into the bend of the other man’s elbow. “If he’s in trouble, you tell me here and now. I swear on my mother’s grave that I won’t let anybody hurt him, you hear?” 

Guy glared at him for what felt like forever before finally looking away. “Jeezus. Alright, fine. _Fine._ But if he comes after me with a fryin’ pan, you better fuckin’ stop him. Booze first.” 

He drank deep before wiping a hand across his mouth and offering the flask to Barry, who pushed it away impatiently. 

“Tell me,” he demanded.

“What’d he tell you about how me and him met?” 

It took Barry a minute to remember. “He said you met at Lantern House. He said that John took you all in after you were ejected for . . . for getting into a disagreement.” 

Guy laughed humorlessly. “Ain’t that a pretty way to put it. And it’s almost true.” He took another generous swig of liquor, coughing as it went down, and then threw himself down on a hay bale. After a hesitation, Barry sat too. 

“Now you listen to me good, Allen. I’m dead serious. Jordan’s gonna tan my hide for tellin’ you any of this, but he should’ve had the balls to tell you hisself. So shut your yap and open your ears.” He capped the flask and slid it back into his pocket. “I didn’t meet Hal at Lantern House. Me and Kyle did stay there for a spell -- that’s true -- but I got tossed out, and by that time we were livin’ with Johnny already. It were Johnny who brought Hal home. He was seventeen and beat half to death. Took a solid week afore I could even see what he looked like proper.”

Barry’s stomach roiled. 

“He probably never told you this neither, but Hal was a runaway. When he took off from his ma’s, he fell into some bad company. There was this slick fella who’d been prospectin’ near Hal’s town, hopin’ to strike it rich in the gold mines. I don’t know what all happened, but they met and he convinced Hal to travel with him.” Guy’s lip curled derisively. “Don’t know ‘bout you, but a grown stranger askin’ a fourteen-year-old kid to up and leave with him ain’t ever doin’ it out of the kindness of his own heart.” 

Barry’s fingers tightened around his knees. There was a part of him -- a small, selfish part -- that considered asking Guy to stop, because that part of him didn’t want to know. It didn’t want to think about Hal, young and vulnerable, falling into the hands of someone who meant him harm. 

“Hal rode with him for three years, ‘til he was seventeen, though by that point it weren’t by choice anymore. This fella had formed up a posse and become a big boss, and folks started gettin’ hurt. Hal don’t talk about it, but I know things were bad enough that he tried to escape. Obviously, the others didn’t take kindly to it. You seen his leg?” 

It wasn’t really a question. 

“Yes,” Barry said tightly. 

Guy’s expression was grim. “Yeah. But you know Hal. He does what he wants, and damn the consequences. He kept runnin’, and they kept catchin’ him. But he finally got away. Got as far as Tennessee, but the boss had put a bounty on him -- capture, not kill -- and some lickspittle thought to get hisself a reward. He caught Hal in Nashville, but people saw and called the marshals.”

“John.”

The smile that crossed Guy’s lips was as mean as a toothless snake. “Johnny and his boys crammed that bounty-man’s head inside his own asshole for beatin’ on a kid like that. Hal healed up quick, but Johnny and Kyle had took a shine to him, so he stayed on with us after that. Me, I never met such a pain in my ass in my entire life. Little twerp had a way of growin’ on you. Like mildew.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Devil take me now if I’m gonna let that bastard get his claws in him again.”

Barry’s head had begun to throb near his temples. This was far too much to think about, too much to absorb all at once. He couldn’t even really describe what he was feeling beyond a faint undercurrent of fear. “You truly believe someone’s after Hal?”

“I don’t see why a stranger would be lookin’ for him otherwise," Guy said tiredly. "It’s a vendetta, Allen. I get that this ain’t your life, but these things don’t just go away. ‘S’not how the world works. We need to clean out your gun and start keepin’ watch. Someone’s bound to tell ‘em where Hal is.” 

Barry nodded. They sat in silence for a breath, rain water pooling on the flagstones under their feet. 

“He shoulda told you,” Guy said. 

“Yes,” Barry said. 

“He’s funny about it. Ashamed of it, I reckon, though he got no cause to be.” Guy paused expectantly, and Barry realized that he was waiting for a word of agreement -- that in his own way, he was attempting to excuse, or maybe just explain, Hal’s secrecy to him. He wanted, perhaps, some intimation of what Barry intended to do with this information.

“I’ll talk to him,” Barry said. “We’ll. . . . we’ll talk.” 

***

It would have been easy to spend the rest of the day fretting or wallowing in a stupor, but Barry did neither. He finished his chores after the rain finally stopped. He coaxed Wally into taking a bath. He darned a pair of Kyle’s socks after supper. Hoofbeats outside heralded Hal’s late return, and a stone-faced Guy went out to intercept him. Neither of them came back. Barry drank a cup of coffee with honey and milk and read a chapter of the adventure novel he’d bought from Dibny’s last week. 

The lamps were lit, and the boys had gone to bed, and still Hal hadn’t come in. 

Barry cleaned his teeth and combed his wet hair, leaving out the still-clear water for Hal to use for his own evening ablutions. He trimmed his toenails and changed into his long-johns. He folded his clothes neatly on the chair. 

He’d just turned down the blankets when the door creaked open. 

Hal lingered on the threshold, casting a black shadow from the lamp. Barry could feel the weight of his eyes on his back as he stood there fluffing the pillows. It was hard to know what to say or how to feel, and so he sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.

Hal crossed the room on soundless feet to stand next to him. Neither of them said a word for what felt like an eternity.

“If you want a divorce,” Hal said quietly, “I won’t fight you on it.” 

Barry looked up in astonishment, but Hal was staring fixedly at the wall. “I don’t want a divorce, Hal.”

“I know Guy told you.” 

“Don’t be angry at him. He’s afraid for you.” 

“I know.” 

“Did the mare settle in okay?” Barry asked, when the painful awkwardness between them had grown too heavy to bear. 

Hal snorted out a soft laugh, but it died quickly. “Of all the things--- She’s fine. She rode well for me. Jay says hello.” 

“Good. I’m glad to hear it.”

“You don’t seem as surprised as I figured you’d be.”

It took a second for Barry to understand what he meant. “I saw the brand on your leg months ago,” he confessed uneasily.

Hal rubbed a hand across his face. “Right. Of course.” He let his fingers drop away. “How come you didn’t ask me about it?”

“I didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.” 

Hal laughed again, bitterly. “I’ll tell you now if you ask.” 

Barry considered him for a while, weighing the tension of their present circumstances with what he’d come to know of Hal in the last year. "Please sit down," he said, and Hal did. Their shoulders brushed. “Tell me and I’ll listen, but only what you want to tell."

And Hal did. 

Haltingly, without looking at Barry, he explained that he and his ma had often quarreled about his desire to be a post-rider. One day his eldest brother, angry at him for upsetting their mother, finally snapped at him to leave if he wanted to go his own way so badly. So Hal had packed up a satchel with a few bits and bobs and struck out on his own, just shy of his fourteenth birthday.

“I didn’t know what the devil I was doin’,” Hal said, shaking his head. “Didn’t take me long to get hungry and lost. I came across this prospectors’ camp, about four miles out from town. There was this fella there, Sinestrelli. He’d come to California lookin’ for gold and struck a few good veins, but the profits were dryin’ up, and he was heading up northeast way. I was real impressed. Seemed to me he was an adventurer, and I wanted some of that myself. He took me under his wing, protected me from the unsavory sorts in the camp, and when he left, he asked me to come along.” Hal shrugged. “I didn’t have any other prospects, so I did. 

“We wandered for a few years, doin’ odd jobs for food. A few times I thought to go home, but Ma was done with me. I don’t blame her for it after the way I left. Eventually we ended up in this town in Texas -- a ranch town, Korugar Gulch. They didn’t have a sheriff, just a few ranchers who kept an eye out for thieves, but there were plenty of crooks who took advantage of that. Well, after we’d been livin’ there a while, he got it in his head to clean the place up. 

“He organized the locals, pullin’ in anyone who was old enough to hold a gun and ride a horse, and he cracked down hard. Scared the bejeezus out of the rustlers and chased ‘em all away. People were thrilled that their cattle were safe again, and they elected to put him in charge of keepin’ order.” 

Hal hesitated. “It went sideways so fast, Barry. He started gettin’ harsher, dealin’ out steep penalties willy-nilly -- not just with thieves, but with the locals too. Anyone who stepped outta line got slapped with heavy fines or a night in the clink. Some of the _vaqueros_ took to poking fun and callin’ him _El Emperador Sinestro_ behind his back. When he found out, he had ‘em all bull-whipped, but then he took it up himself. I reckon he even came around to bein’ proud of it. 

“The thing of it was, Sinestro fancied himself a vigilante; someone who would keep order in the places where the law wouldn’t. If I’d been smart, I’d’ve wondered why he hadn’t become a marshal if the law was so damn important to him. But he never would’ve wanted to be beholden to the law himself. He wasn’t interested in bringin’ people to justice. He’d got a taste of real power, and it went to his head.”

Hal rubbed his face wearily. “Our posse ran off other gangs, chased away the rustlers from folks’ ranches and kept an eye on the wagon routes. I don’t know when things changed, but some of Sinestro’s boys were pocketing whatever they could get off the thieves, and it went from scaring crooks to beating ‘em senseless. His punishments got meaner and meaner, and anybody who crossed him would pay. We started gettin’ gifts from the locals, but everybody knew it were extortion; they were more scared of us than they ever were of the cattle-rustlers. And Sinestro and me. . . . “ A muscle pulsed in Hal’s jaw. His eyes flitted away, full of naked shame.

"Oh, Hal," Barry said helplessly.

“He made a cat’s-paw of me. I trusted him like a simpleton, and he liked that. Did his best to keep it that way, and when I started to see him for what he was, he tightened the reins. Everything I did, he had somebody watchin'. Everything I said was said back to him. I couldn’t go out of his sight. He wanted me as his right-hand man, and he got terrible jealous. But he’d listen to me, sometimes, though it got less and less toward the end. Even said he loved me.” 

Something in Barry’s face must have given away his horror, because Hal shook his head. “Not like you’re thinkin’. I wasn’t his molly. Maybe he wanted to, I don’t know. But I don’t reckon the thought even crossed his mind. It was all about winning with Sinestro. The more gold you dug up, the more people you fleeced, the more territory you prowled, the more influence you had. All the violence, all the people he hurt, he did it to prove that he could, that he knew best, and if you didn’t fall in line, he’d stamp you down into the dirt. He loved that folks were afraid of him. That made him feel like a big man.” 

“Was that when you tried to leave?” 

“Almost. I stayed longer than I should’ve, hoping that it would all stop. I tried to talk him down, and sometimes he’d have mercy. I did things I ain’t proud of, Barry. Once you rode with his posse, there was no leavin’, no way back out.

“There was a rustler who fed us information, and I guess the poor dumb cuss was wrong one time too many. Sinestro ordered him shot right there on his horse. I’d never seen anybody killed before. Didn’t hit his heart straight on, so he screamed and cried for his mama ‘til he bled out in the dirt. And I just stood there watchin’ him die. I could’ve done something, begged Sinestro, fought him harder.”

“There isn’t a _thing_ you could have done, Hal."

Hal’s lips tightened. “Don’t matter. The next day I saddled up. Didn’t get far.” His hand slid to his thigh, seemingly unconsciously. “He must’ve had a soft spot for me, deep-down, ‘cause he didn’t hurt me ‘til the second time I ran away. Said if I couldn’t keep it in my head who I belonged to, he’d make me remember.”

Barry clenched his fists in his own lap, reminding himself sternly that he wasn’t a violent man. 

“I don’t know if he was tryin’ to make up for his weakness with me, but after that, any folks who tried to rise against him just up and disappeared. I didn’t put it together ‘til later. You go out into the gullies on the outskirts of town, I bet anything you’d find graves there. The truth is, John saved my life. If that bounty hunter had brought me back to Sinestro, I don’t doubt for a minute that he would’ve had me killed. I’d run one time too many.

“But I was safe while I was with John. Even the boldest bounty-man wouldn’t dare to try and kidnap me under the nose of a federal marshal. It’s why we had to leave after John went missing. I knew that Sinestro could still have people on my tail, and if they found out John was gone, they might come after me again, and Kyle could get hurt. I told Guy he and Kyle should stay, and I’d strike out on my own again. Stubborn ass wouldn’t hear of it. We didn’t have the money for all of us to travel, though. The bank took John’s house and there was nothin’ left, so when I heard that the marriage agency was offering cash up front. . . .” 

“You really didn’t intend to stay, did you?” Barry murmured.

Hal looked down at his feet. “I don’t know. All I knew is it would get us out of Nashville and somewhere that Sinestro might not be able to find me. A fool’s hope, I guess. I thought, he’d never look for me on some farm in the middle of nowhere. He’d never expect me to get married or be a family man. And then I met you, and I----” He trailed off, and Barry lifted his eyes to see Hal’s throat bob as he swallowed. “You were kind.” 

_Kind_. That was what Hal thought, that it had been kindness and not Barry’s own loneliness that had led him to offer material benefits to a man who was in no position to reject them in exchange for companionship. What a kind man he’d been indeed, to naively believe that someone in Hal’s desperate situation would feel free to refuse a marriage that promised him and those he loved safety. The dull ache in the pit of Barry’s stomach throbbed. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked, and he wished he hadn’t when he heard how wounded he sounded. 

Hal must have heard it too; he hung his head, his shoulders crawling up around his ears like a reprimanded child's. “I’m sorry. God Almighty, I’m sorry. I don’t know why I didn’t.” 

Barry wanted sorely to hold Hal, but every inch of that coiled, rigid body was screaming at him to stay away, to keep his distance. It was almost a physical ache not to be able to comfort Hal when he was hurting. Barry dug his fingers into his own thigh so he wouldn’t be tempted to venture where he wasn’t wanted.

“What the hell are we gonna do, Bar?” 

Barry didn’t know what to tell him. His feelings were all tangled up: sorrow and grief for Hal, rage at the men who'd abused him, resentment at being lied to, and a growing fear. “Let’s sleep on it,” he offered at length. ”We’ll find a solution tomorrow when our heads are clearer.” 

With uncommon meekness, Hal let himself be settled in bed. Barry laid beside him in the dark with his mind awhirl, overly aware of the stiff body next to his and unable to reassure himself somehow that everything would be better in the morning.

After that nightmarish tale, he wasn't keen on sleeping, but eventually he fell into a light doze -- light enough that he was instantly alert when he felt Hal rise from their bed. He heard the rustle of clothes, drawers opening and closing, the heavy swish of Hal’s coat being pulled from the chair, and then suddenly it all stopped. Barry prised open one eye cautiously. 

Hal stood at the window, dressed, with his coat in one hand and his hat in the other. Even as Barry watched, Hal sighed, his shoulders slumping. He stood there for a moment longer, and then he put his coat and hat on the bureau and began shedding his clothes again. 

Barry closed his eyes and waited, hardly breathing. Cautious footsteps crossed back, and then Hal was slipping under the blankets. It was silent for so long that Barry startled a little when he heard Hal’s voice. 

“I wasn’t gonna go.”

Barry didn’t turn around. That hard pinching weight in his chest wouldn’t let up. It was tempting to let it lie at that -- to move on, and leave the question unasked. But he’d never wanted to trap anyone, never wanted to be the cause of someone’s unhappiness, especially someone he . . . cared for as much as Hal. “Do you want to go?” he asked. 

“No,” Hal said. 

The immediacy of the answer eased some of Barry’s fear. It had made him sick to think that his husband had felt confined in their marriage against his will all these months. 

“It’s not about what I want.” Hal sounded so exhausted, so defeated, that Barry had to roll over and look at him. “I’ve brought nothin’ but trouble to you. If someone’s still gunnin’ for me, they’ll be led straight to Wally. To you. To Kyle and Guy. God knows what they’d do to you, if they thought it would give them an edge to hold over me.” 

“So I’m just supposed to throw you to the wolves then?” Barry said, sharp. “You leave all your friends and keep running alone until they kill you? That’s no life, Hal!”

“You think I don’t know that? You think I haven’t----” He stopped, his jaw clenching, and Barry sat up. 

“You’re safer here,” he said urgently. “We’re all safer if we stay together. People here will protect you now. You’re one of us, and we look after our own.”

“I didn’t tell you because I wanted so bad to be who you thought I was.”

“Hal---”

“I hate what he did to me, I hate what he made me do, and I didn’t want you to know. You’re a good man. It was nice, pretending that I was too.” 

“Don’t,” Barry said roughly. “I don’t ever want to hear you say that again.” He gathered himself and took Hal’s shoulders in his hands. “You don’t have to run. We can go together, you and me, and we’ll set this right. We’ll ask the sheriff to come. Clark too. We’ll talk to whoever it is who’s asking for you and sort things out like civilized human beings, one man to another. We’ll tell him what happened to you. We’ll tell him the truth: that you were a boy who was wronged and deceived through no fault of his own, because he was taken in by a monster of a man. That’s what we’re going to tell him.”

“That ain’t the truth.” 

“The hell it isn’t. Would you say that if it were Kyle in your place? Wally?”

Hal pursed his lips. “That’s different.” He cut his glance to the side. “It don’t matter anyway. They’re bounty-men, not clergy. They won’t care what sob story they’re told so long as they get their money.”

“I don’t think that’s true. To do what they do, I think they must have some sort of belief in justice, or at least in vengeance. We can appeal to that. And if it comes to a fight, then we’ll fight.” 

“You don’t---”

“I do,” Barry said fiercely. “I’m not letting them take you away.”

“I’ve been _happy_ ,” Hal said, and there was something terribly raw in his voice. “I never---- I don’t want to leave you, Barry, but what else can I do? I don’t want anyone to get hurt.” 

It was too much for any one man to endure. Barry reached for him, and then Hal was there, fumbling for his hand and clinging to it with something like desperation. Barry bent his head to let it rest against Hal’s, mussing their hair as their breath mingled between them. “Stay here,” he pleaded, cupping his other hand against Hal’s cheek. “Stay here with me where you belong.”

Hal didn’t say anything, but he didn’t let go of Barry’s hand. 

Neither of them slept a wink that night. 

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> 1) "Soft down on" -- in love with
> 
> 2) Try as I might, it's literally impossible to make Sinestro's name sound not-ridiculous in any context. Thanks a lot, John Broome.


	8. Arrowheads

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One fire is tamped down, but another springs up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait! (Again!) There are still two more chapters to go, because I'm terrible about letting plots run away with me. Thanks for sticking with me. 
> 
> Chapter warnings: language, brief violence, period-typical racism/sexism.

* * *

_Arrowheads_

* * *

* * *

When Barry groggily opened his eyes, his husband was watching him from across the gulf of their bed. 

Hal’s eyes were alert despite the fatigued shadows beneath them. He was stretched out on his side, both arms curled almost protectively to his chest. Shafts of sunlight were barely beginning to peek through the curtains, and the room was still dim and peaceful as they lay quietly together. 

Hal had stayed. 

Neither of them had really slept beyond a few bouts of restless dozing, but the opportunity would have been there had Hal really wanted to take it. He’d _stayed_. 

“Are you ready?” Barry asked. Hal nodded. 

They woke the rest of the house. After an intense argument in the barn, it was decided that Barry and Hal would ride double on Arkillo to town while Guy would stay behind to guard the boys and evacuate them on the new mare, Sapphire, if things went sour. 

They’d unanimously agreed to conceal the purpose of their errand from the children so as not to frighten them. As they tacked up to leave, Hal lingered on the porch. Barry saw him hesitate before bending to kiss Kyle’s forehead, holding the boy’s face in his hands for a moment. Seeing this, Wally ambled over to demand a share of the affection as well, and Hal obliged him before ushering them back inside to finish their breakfast. 

Barry waited until they were both up on the saddle before he put his lips to Hal’s ear. “We’ll be home soon.” He hoped that his determination came through loud and clear. They would be. There was no other acceptable course. 

Guy followed them on foot until they were safely out of earshot. Then he reached up to grab Arkillo’s bridle and pinned Barry with a steely glare. 

“Allen,” he said, “iff’n you don’t come back with this knucklehead, you don’t come back at all.” Hal started to protest but was cut off with a curt, “Stuff your yammerin’ piehole. _You_ \-- you remember what I told you.”

“I remember.” Hal sounded uncommonly subdued. 

“Go on, then,” Guy said brusquely, releasing Arkillo’s bridle. 

They rode at a rapid clip to the Kents’ ranch. At the gate, they happened upon old Mr. Kent. He seemed taken aback to see them out and about at so early an hour, but they were amicably directed to Clark, who was helping his mother wash up the breakfast dishes at the house. 

It took no convincing to get Clark to join them -- at the first intimation that something was amiss, he kissed his ma and went to saddle his horse. It was only once they were alone out on the road to Central that he even asked what was wrong. 

Hal laid down the bare bones of his history, leaving out the more sordid details but unflinching in his assessment of his own part in the sacking of Korugar Gulch. Despite his bravado, Barry could feel the stiffness of Hal’s body in front of him and see the shame in the meek bend of his neck; he found himself sitting closer than the saddle demanded, wishing to comfort without injuring Hal’s dignity.

Through it all, Clark listened without comment. At the tale’s end, he simply shook his head and tipped up his hat to look Hal straight in the eye. “I’m mighty sorry that happened to you,” he said gravely. “How can I help?”

Barry had never been so grateful to call Clark a friend. 

The sparse details of what they knew about the stranger were pooled between the three of them and debated intently as they made their way to town. The barest bones of a plan began to take shape: they would enlist Sheriff Prince’s assistance first and enter Gold’s in force together later in the evening, when the stranger would likely be full up with beer and the saloon’s best supper and anticipating his bed. If they could catch him off his guard, the confrontation might have a better chance of sparking off without violence on either side. 

Sheriff Prince, as it turned out, had other ideas. She was in the Assay Office when they arrived in town, and the whole matter was promptly laid out for her in the privacy of this inner sanctum. She listened as attentively as Clark had, her face betraying nothing of her thoughts. She thanked Hal for telling her and then declared, on her word, that no one was going to abduct a citizen of Central City under her watch. 

“I don’t approve of employing bounty hunters as a matter of principle,” she said firmly. “Their justice is driven by profit and hearsay, not truth, and the law cannot stand without truth. I won’t have them making trouble here.”

Her subsequent interrogation was thorough. She wanted to know the exact circumstances of how Guy had chanced upon the stranger at the saloon. She wanted to know precisely what he looked like, how he had acted, what his behavior had been. She wanted to know how Sinestro’s posse had operated and how his bounty calls had been distributed in the past. She wanted to know if Hal still had any contacts among the citizens of Korugar Gulch and even asked for a list of the names of those who had been informed of Hal’s marriage. 

Once Hal had finally been wrung dry of information, she sent Clark out to round up her deputies. Although they weren’t officially deputized, the Currys and young Vic Stone often assisted the sheriff with mediating disputes in town that were rowdy enough to require extra hands; the time that Mera Curry had single-handedly broken up a bar fight while eight months pregnant was still something of a local legend.

With the wheels of their scheme set in motion, the only thing left to do was pay a visit to Gold’s to scope out the current situation. Clark sidled in first, and upon confirming that the barroom was empty except for Mr. Gold and Miss Bea, the rest of them followed. As soon as Gold caught sight of them coming in all together in a tight cluster, his bright blue eyes went wide.

“I’m as innocent as a newborn babe, Sheriff!” he sputtered, raising his open palms. “Whoever’s whispering poison into your ears, they’ve got it all wrong. I swear it on the soul of Beetle’s dear, departed mother!”

“She’s still alive,” Miss Bea said dryly, not glancing up from where she was wiping down beer glasses. 

“No one has been whispering anything, Mister Gold. But if you’ve something to confess. . . .“

“Not at all,” Gold said hastily. “Just a little joke, ha! What can I rustle up for you good folks? We received a shipment of top-coin whiskey from the Scottish coast if you’d fancy something finer to wet your whistles.”

“I’m looking to speak with a lodger of yours,” the sheriff interrupted. “Blond, blue eyes, of a height with Barry, mustachioed, with a scar above his right eye. This man isn’t known to any of us in town and may have arrived earlier in the week.” 

Miss Bea looked intrigued. “Oh, him? Is he some sort of wanted man? I told Tora, I just knew he had to be somebody mysterious -- a man who looks like that always is. Is the lady an outlaw too?”

“There’s a woman with him?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” Miss Bea propped her hands on her hips. “You might have a time of it lockin’ her up. She’s a firebrand. Drank her gent under the table their first night here and then carried him upstairs herself. Tipped me twice what the drinks were worth.”

Gold brought out his ledger from behind the bar. “They gave their names as Mr. and Mrs. Harper,” he said, leafing through the pages. “Paid for a week’s stay up front in cash. Ordered breakfast and three hot suppers brought up to their room every day.”

“Three?” 

“Well, for the two of them and one for the kid, I suppose.” 

Barry had been taking care to hold his tongue, but at that revelation he couldn’t help but exclaim, “There’s a child with them?” 

“An Indian boy. Maybe ten or eleven, or something near. I saw him when they came in, but he didn’t make a peep to anyone.” 

Clark looked positively indignant. “Who in the sam-hill brings a kid along when they’re chasin’ down bounties?” 

“Not _now_ , Clark,” the sheriff said under her breath. “Is the child upstairs with them this morning?”

“Bea’s the one who took up their breakfast.”

Miss Bea rapped her varnished nails on the counter, annoyed. “I’ve been leavin’ the tray outside the door like they asked. You don’t pay me to spy on our lodgers, Booster Gold.” Her scowl deepened. “You hardly pay me nothin’.” 

“Wait,” Gold said suddenly, jerking to attention. “Sheriff, you’re not going to try to take them in _here_ , are you? I don’t want another brawl in my saloon! This Harper fellow already broke a half-dozen of my glasses when he punched Hector Hammond across the bartop two nights ago. Shattered a whole tray! Those aren’t cheap, you know.” 

“It was worth the cost and you know it,” Miss Bea said testily. “Hammond’s a rat. And he never pays his damn tab.” 

“You should have fetched me if there was a fight,” Sheriff Prince sighed.

Gold scratched his head. “Well, I mean, it was only the glasses. And Beetle said Hammond deserved it, and you know Beetle knows people, for all that----”

“Mister Gold. If you please.” 

“Sorry, ma’am. Harper and the lady were having a drink, and Hector had a bit too much and said . . .” Gold glanced at the sheriff and cleared his throat awkwardly. “Well, he said . . . uh, something rude to Mrs. Harper. Hector wasn’t hurt so bad that his nephew couldn’t walk him home after, so I figured there was no need to bother you. And there was a good poker game going, and -- no offense -- but you showing up is bad for business.” 

Sheriff Prince looked unimpressed. 

Having gleaned what little information Gold had to offer and acquired the master key to the rooms upstairs, the party reconvened at the Assay Office. They were soon joined by Vic, Arthur, and a visibly irritated, visibly expectant Mrs. Curry. 

Barry glanced at her protruding belly with some alarm. He hadn’t realized the Currys were in the family way again -- this was, what? Their sixth child? Seventh? It seemed that every spring there was another little Curry toddling around town -- but if she felt she was fit enough to help shake down a criminal, he wasn’t about to tell her otherwise. 

With all the players assembled, the planning could begin in earnest. Sheriff Prince overruled their idea of approaching at night -- it suggested artifice on their part, she said, and the lack of light might put them at a disadvantage should the confrontation spill out into the street. She asked the Currys and Vic to each man a side of the building to watch for escape attempts; one wall was windowless and set up against the neighboring tailor shop, but all the other sides had at least one window, and there was a front and a back kitchen entrance. While they stood watch, Clark, the sheriff, and Barry would enter and clear the barroom of any onlookers. They would go directly upstairs from there. The sheriff would take point in addressing the Harpers, and, with any luck, a civil conversation could be had by everyone.

In the likely event that they were met with a hostile reaction, the sheriff would engage with Harper, Clark would subdue Mrs. Harper, and Barry would find the child and remove him from the room for his own protection until things had settled down. Hal had, of course, asked what his own role should be, and the sheriff’s suggestion that he might be better served to wait in the Assay Office was met with predictable outrage. Hal argued passionately that as the whole matter involved him, he ought to have a part in the danger. The sheriff had seemed unconvinced until he called it a matter of personal honor. 

“I’ve been lookin’ over my shoulder for almost four years now, just waitin’ for a reckoning,” he said hotly. “I’m sick and tired of runnin’, ma’am. If a man can’t buck up and face down what scares him most, then he’s not worth his salt.”

“Wait,” Vic said, sounding perplexed, “do you know this man, Hal? Runnin’ from what?”

“It’s not important right now,” Barry said. “Please. Let’s leave the explanations for later.” 

Hal uncrossed his arms. “Ma’am, I’m beggin’ you.” 

“I take your point, Hal,” the sheriff said at last, “and if your honor demands it, I won’t be the one to stand in your way. But you must be willing to follow my lead in this.” She cast her piercing eyes around the room, moving deliberately from face to face. “That goes for every one of you. I want no blood spilled today.”

There were murmurs of agreement. 

“Understood, Diana,” Mrs. Curry said impatiently, swinging her rifle off her shoulder. “Now can we get a move on? My feet are hurtin’ something fierce.” 

Everyone took their places. Barry had left his gun back at the farm with Guy in the event that he might need to defend the boys; as they filed out of the office, he grabbed one of the fire pokers, just in case. 

Hal smiled a little when he saw. “You look pretty fearsome with that,” he murmured. 

Barry cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I reckon it’s better than nothing. I should’ve taken one for you. You’ve only got your fists.” 

“And Guy’s knife in my boot.” 

A few patrons had wandered in by the time they returned to the saloon. Sheriff Prince cleared the barroom, sending everyone home -- including Mr. Gold, much to his dismay. After securing a promise from her that there absolutely would _not_ be a fight in his saloon and, on the slim chance that there was, that she would pay for any repairs out of her own pocket, Gold reluctantly took his leave. 

“Calmly, gentlemen,” Sheriff Prince reminded them. “We approach calmly, with open hands, until everyone has had their say.”

She led the way up the stairs, followed closely by Clark, with Hal and Barry bringing up the rear. Barry tread as quietly as he could, but the stairs were old, and he winced inwardly with every noisy creak. Hopefully the Harpers were otherwise occupied and wouldn’t notice. 

Sheriff Prince motioned them to stay back and approached their room. She rapped softly on the door with one hand, the other hovering over the holster at her hip. “Mister Harper?” she called. “I’m here to discuss your bill with you. Would you be so kind as to unlock the door?”

There was a pause. Barry craned his ears, but he didn’t hear so much as a whisper or a footstep on the other side of the door. 

Abruptly, the lock unlatched. “Come on in, sweetheart,” a low male voice drawled, and before Sheriff Prince could even touch the knob, the door was violently kicked open from the inside. 

Barry yelped and dropped his poker as something whizzed overhead, rustling his hair as it passed -- glancing up, he saw the shaft of an arrow sticking out of the wall right above his head, still vibrating. Hal let out a roar of fury and barreled heedlessly into the room, hurling himself at the archer, who was already notching another arrow. 

Everything happened so fast. By the time Barry managed to retrieve his poker and get inside the room, the scene had descended into chaos. Hal and Sheriff Prince were wrestling with the bowman -- Harper? -- who had blood streaming down his nose but showed no signs of turning himself in peacefully. Clark had his arm around the neck of another stranger -- Mrs. Harper, presumably -- who was struggling just as ferociously, clawing at his skin with her nails and trying to stomp on his feet with her high-heeled boots. 

Although he wanted very much to grab Hal by the ear and drag him out, Barry remembered the child. The room was small -- just a bed, a chest of drawers, and a bath, and there was a steamer trunk set against one wall -- but there was no sign of anyone else. The window was still closed too, and when Barry peered out, Vic was standing there, so it didn’t seem that the child had escaped. He bent to look under the bed, but there was nothing but a great deal of dust. 

There was a loud shout, and Barry sat up hurriedly. Hal had gotten to his feet -- an impressive shiner was already blooming on his right eye, but he seemed otherwise unhurt, and he was gripping the bow in his hands. Sheriff Prince, it seemed, had laid Harper out and hogtied him tighter than a miser’s purse. Mrs. Harper was still doing her best to grind her pointed heels into Clark’s toes, but she stilled, wary, as soon as the Sheriff roughly hauled Harper into a sitting position. 

There was a moment’s tense silence. 

Harper sniffled and then spat a wad of blood onto the floor. He was tall and lean, with the barest hints of gray in his slicked-back blond hair and his elaborately groomed beard. His olive-colored taffeta coat looked expensive. “You people certainly take your bills seriously in this town,” he said. 

“You think you’re funny?” Hal snarled, his fists white-knuckled on the bow. “I oughta break this over your head.”

Harper craned around to look at him. “Sounds personal, brother. The only trouble is, I can’t imagine what I might’ve done to deserve it. I don’t think we’ve met. With a face like yours, I’m sure I’d remember.”

“ _Quiet_. My name is Diana Prince, and I’m the sheriff of this county.”

“Wonderful,” the man muttered. 

“This got out of hand,” she continued, undeterred, “and for that I apologize. But we have reason to believe you mean harm, and I strongly recommend that you be honest with me. Let’s start with your real names. If you-----” 

“I’m not goin’ with you whoever you are,” Hal burst out. “You can tell Sinestro that I’d rather die than go back to him, so if you’re thinkin’ this’ll be an easy run you’re dead wrong!”

“What the devil are you talking about?” Harper demanded. 

Mrs. Harper dropped her hands from where she’d been determinedly trying to pry up Clark’s fingers. “Wait,” she said. “Wait. I don’t suppose your name happens to be Hal Jordan.”

Hal bared his teeth. “And what’s it to you?”

“Oh, good God.” The woman closed her eyes, heaving the deep sigh of the truly put-upon. “Of course. What did I say when all this started, Ollie? I _told_ you we were making it more complicated than it had to be. I told you someone would notice and misunderstand.” She opened her eyes and looked over her shoulder at Clark. “Mister, I don’t suppose you’d let me have my arms back?” 

Clark hesitated until he got a nod from the sheriff, and then he let her go, mumbling sheepish apologies. She rubbed the feeling back into her hands and then extended one boldly towards Hal. 

“Let’s start again. My name is Dinah Lance,” she offered. “The gentleman you’ve got tied up like a ham shank is Oliver Queen. Neither of us mean you any harm.” 

Hal refused to shake her hand. “He shot an arrow at my husband’s head.” 

Her plucked eyebrows rose. “And we opened our curtains to find ourselves surrounded by armed strangers, with more of them trying to sneak up the stairs -- very poorly, I might add -- to corner us. You’ll excuse us if we assumed the worst. By-the-by, if Ollie had meant to hit your husband, he would have. He never misses. And we don’t have any intention of kidnapping anyone.”

Hal didn’t look convinced. “So you ain’t here to take me?”

“No,” Miss Lance said firmly. 

“Not unless you want us to,” Queen added, and yes, that was indeed a hint of a smirk there under that absurdly curled mustache. Barry frowned.

“Explain,” Sheriff Prince ordered. “We know you’ve been asking around for information. What’s your interest in Hal? Are you bounty hunters, or are you not?”

“Strictly speaking, I wouldn’t say that we’re _not_ ,” Queen hedged. 

“Ollie, shut your mouth.” Miss Lance put an absent hand to her ink-black hair, smoothing back the multitude of thick braids from her face. She was around Barry’s age, and awfully beautiful. “We have in the past, but not anymore. We’re not here to take anyone in. We came as a favor to a friend.” She thrust her hands into the pockets of her loose leather vest. “You’re not an easy man to find, Mister Jordan.” 

“You want me to apologize for that?”

Miss Lance didn’t look ruffled. “You’re not a mark, I swear on my life.”

“Your word ain’t worth a hill of beans to me.” 

“Please, just hear us out. All we were asked to do was to confirm that you lived in this town for a friend of yours, John Stewart. He says he’s been searching for you for a long time.”

Barry’s eyes flew over to Hal, who looked like he’d been coshed with a shovel. His mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before he managed, “John’s dead.” 

“Then he’s awfully active for a corpse,” Queen said. 

“You’re a goddamn liar.”

“Federal marshal with a notch in his left ear? Deuced good-looking, has a handshake that’s liable to snap all the bones in your fingers? He said to tell you that he expects you to have his ring polished up before he sees you next. I presume that means something to you.”

Hal turned to look at Barry. His expression was curiously blank, his lips drawn so tight that they were white at the crease. Barry almost reached for him in concern before he remembered himself -- and their attentive audience. 

“I need to talk to Barry.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement from anyone, Hal shoved open the door and stomped down the stairs. Clark cut a worried glance at him, but Barry only excused himself before following Hal down into the empty bar. 

“Are you okay?” he asked.

“No,” Hal said. “Do you think it’s all fiddle faddle?”

Barry sat on the edge of a table and took his time seriously considering the question. He didn’t like Queen’s flippant manner, and didn’t trust it, but he felt that there was something respectable about Miss Lance. The sincerity with which she’d addressed Hal, the calm way she’d defused the misunderstanding, and her genuine surprise at being accused of deceit all rang of truth to Barry, but it could easily be put-on. He knew nothing of either of them. He knew very little of John Stewart beyond what Hal and Kyle had told him. He hadn’t even known that there had been a damned bounty before yesterday afternoon. “I don’t see how they’d know about John if it were all a fiction.”

“It could be a trick,” Hal muttered. He began pacing, moving in short, energetic bursts from the piano in the corner to the bar and back. “Sinestro could’ve heard that John died and made up a story about him being alive and lookin’ for me to flush me out. It’s exactly the kind of dirty underhanded thing he’d do. Queen could be one of his spies.”

“Maybe,” Barry agreed. “Or John could be alive and well. He might have written to one of your friends and got the address that way. He might have found our marriage license, or even contacted the agency.”

Hal abruptly stopped pacing. “He could’ve asked Tom,” he said, almost to himself. “That’d be the first place he’d be liable to go if he found out Guy and Kyle and me left town. Of course Tom would tell him. I need to wire Tom.”

“The telegraph office is closed on Sundays,” Barry reminded him. “We can send one first thing in the morning.” 

“John’s been gone for so damn long. Where’s he been this whole time? Why now? If he was laid up somewhere, why didn’t he send us word? He wouldn’t’ve just up and left us like that with nothing. He wouldn’t’ve done that to Kyle.” Hal put his hands to his head, letting out a frustrated growl. “But if it’s a lie, how’d he know about John’s ring? Sinestro didn’t know about it -- _couldn’t_ know about it. That ring didn’t mean nothin’ to anyone ‘cept John.” 

That was true. Hal wasn’t even wearing the ring; he kept it stowed safely in a tea tin on their bureau more often than not nowadays. “Suppose John was counting on that,” Barry speculated. “He has to know you would think anyone searching for you was connected to Sinestro.”

“I guess so.” Hal rubbed his face, wincing when he bumped his rapidly-swelling eye. “I dunno what to do.” There was something pleading in his voice, as if he wanted Barry to make up his mind for him, as if he were afraid to believe what Queen and Miss Lance were telling him -- afraid, maybe, that it might turn out not to be true. 

“Come sit,” Barry said quietly, and Hal obeyed. He carefully peeled up Hal’s eyelid to take a gander, but there wasn’t any visible blood or damage to the eye itself so far as he could tell. It would probably swell up like a grapefruit by the end of the night, though. 

“It adds up,” Hal reasoned. “It’s what John would do, if he found out we were gone. He wouldn’t ever stop lookin’ until he knew what happened for sure.” 

Barry smoothed a hand down Hal’s back. “I agree that they know too many details for it all to be fabricated. We can still be careful, and we’ll know for certain once you wire Tom. We don’t have to wait long.” He let his fingers come to rest on Hal’s shoulder, and Hal quickly covered them with his own. “Hal, if he’s alive. . . .”

“I can’t hope yet.” It came out harsh, but he was still holding onto Barry, and Barry knew it wasn’t him that Hal was frustrated with. “Not ‘til I know for sure.” 

“Of course.” Barry gave him another minute to think, but before long Hal was stirring, slipping down off the table.

“Let’s go back. I have a mind to hear ‘em out.” 

They returned upstairs to quite a different scene than the one they’d left. Sheriff Prince had custody of the commandeered weapons, but Queen had been untied and was sitting on the bed with Miss Lance, scrubbing at the dried blood in his mustache with a damp handkerchief. A lanky boy about Kyle’s age was huddled behind them on the mattress, observing it all with wary eyes.

“Oh good, you’re back,” Queen said. “Now that we’ve all called a truce, can we finish this without someone breaking my nose again?”

“Hal,” Clark said, “I think you’re going to want to hear this.” 

Queen opened his mouth only to be immediately interrupted by Miss Lance. “Let me, Ollie.” Despite the obvious exasperation, there was a warm affection in her voice. She crossed her long, trouser-clad legs and made herself comfortable before fixing her attention on Hal. “I realized what happened as soon as you said ‘Sinestro’. I don’t think there are two people in the world unlucky enough to be saddled with _that_ corker. So here’s the thing, Hal. May I call you Hal? The thing is, we do know Sinestrelli, but not because we’re in his books. Ollie and I helped put him in the hoosegow.”

Barry’s astonishment was probably written all over his face, but poor Hal had had one shock too many today; he stared at her for a moment before he said flatly, “Sure, call me Hal. I don’t give a rip what you call me, ma’am. Just . . . just go on.” 

Miss Lance did. 

Two months ago, she and Queen had been passing through Texas on unrelated business and had, quite unwittingly, stayed the night in Korugar Gulch at precisely the wrong time. They found themselves caught up in what turned out to be a full-scale rebellion of the town’s citizens against Sinestro’s posse. Although Miss Lance didn’t know the details of what had transpired before they arrived, she explained that the locals had organized with the assistance of none other than John Stewart himself. It seemed that John had come to Korugar Gulch with a number of sheriffs from neighboring counties, and with their help, the citizens had formed a militia with enough manpower to give the posse a real fight. Miss Lance and Queen had been bystanders at first, but as they were given to understand exactly what Sinestro’s gang had done to the town, they’d volunteered to join the militia. 

“It seemed like the right thing to do,” Miss Lance said modestly. “Anyone could see that the town had been ransomed, and Ollie and I are no strangers to a good fight. Besides, the posse fell apart once they’d been routed out into the desert. Turns out they didn’t know the lay of the land nearly as well as the locals did.” 

“And you captured Sinestro?” Hal’s skepticism was obvious. “How’d you manage that?”

“We picked off the posse like flies,” Queen said. “Started with the hangers-on and worked our way up. Sinestrelli was slippery, but once he was left on his own, we got him cornered and Stewart’s wife took him in without so much as a shot fired.”

“His _wife?!”_ Hal was looking so overwhelmed that Barry felt a pang of sympathy. His own head was spinning -- he couldn’t imagine what Hal was feeling. 

“Please, can we slow down for a minute?” Barry pleaded. “Just one thing at a time. Where’s Sinestro now?” 

Queen shrugged. “In the jailhouse, like we said. Stewart and his bunch were making noise about having him transferred to Houston to stand in front of a judge, but some of the townsfolk wanted a gallows trial right there. They were arguing about it when Dinah and I left.”

“John’s still there?” Hal asked. 

“As far as I know. He heard that we were coming up north and he said he had a lead that you were in Keystone county, so he asked us to wire him if we could confirm it.”

“That’s mighty convenient.” 

“It was a favor. He saved my neck during a skirmish. I owed him.” 

Hal looked at him and then at Miss Lance. Barry could almost see the calculation in his eyes, the struggle between what he wanted to believe and what was believable. “What did John say when he asked you to look for me? Who did he say I was?” 

“He told us his family had gone missing. That was all he said.” 

Hal bit his lip. 

Sheriff Prince stirred from where she’d been leaning against the wall, observing silently. “I think it’s time to move this to the Assay Office. Until we can confirm----”

“No, it’s okay,” Hal said. “I believe ‘em.”

“What, really?” Clark sounded about as surprised as Barry felt. 

“Finally,” Queen sighed.

“ _Ollie._ It was a misunderstanding.”

“I won’t hold a grudge, but I wouldn’t say no to a drink either,” Queen added.

“Don’t push your luck,” Hal said, but Barry could see the half-smile tugging at his mouth. “Sorry for punchin’ you. It was a dirty move.” 

“No hard feelings.” Queen stuffed the handkerchief in his nostril and poked around until he seemed satisfied that he’d gotten most of the crusted blood cleared out. “Hand to God, that’s how I’ve met most of my friends. Might as well add you to the list, brother.” 

***

Barry woke the next morning to a soft tap at the door. Hal grumbled in his ear. 

The door cracked open a hair’s-width. “Barry?” Sue whispered. “Are you up? Ralph and I are eating breakfast, but I brought you and Hal a tray. I figured you’d like to rest this morning. I’ll leave it outside.” 

Barry thanked her, waiting until her footsteps padded back down the stairs before he got out of bed to fetch the tray -- as much as he loved Sue, he wasn’t keen on her seeing him in his underclothes. 

The tray was loaded with scrambled eggs, buttered toast, a potato and vegetable hash, and a generous slab of cold ham. Barry fixed up the coffee first and brought a mug back to the bed for Hal. 

The smell roused him, but as soon as he’d stuck up his head, he groaned pitifully and thumped it back down on the pillow. “Uhn, my head. . . .”

“If it’s any consolation, I bet Queen’s hurting even worse. He drank more than you did.” 

“And Dinah drank more than both of us combined.” Hal chuckled into the pillow before rolling over tentatively onto his back, blinking against the daylight. “Helluva woman. I like her. I like ‘em both.” 

That much was clear. After everyone else had gone home, the four of them had cemented their truce with a round of drinks on Barry’s dime. Queen evidently hadn’t been lying about how he made friends, because within the hour he and Hal were laughing together like old compadres. Barry had bought a lemonade for Connor Hawke, the boy in their care, and made uncomfortable small talk with Miss Lance while he’d nursed his beer. He did, however, pick up a few interesting tidbits of information. 

For one thing, the pair were accomplished trackers and had traveled all over the country, carving out a living by locating lost wagon caravans and missing persons as well as chasing the occasional bounty. Those days were over now, Miss Lance had said, somewhat wistfully, and it was easy to guess why, given Connor’s presence.

Young Connor was Queen’s son. Since he didn’t share his father’s surname, Barry surmised that the boy was natural-born. He didn’t look much like Queen either, apart from the blue eyes and light-colored hair that contrasted strikingly with his brown complexion. Barry also guessed that the boy hadn’t been with them long, a suspicion that was confirmed when Miss Lance remarked in passing that the errand that had led them through Korugar Gulch had been to fetch Connor from a missionary school. Though she didn’t say so outright, Barry got the distinct impression that Queen and his son hadn’t met before then. 

As for the lad himself, Connor had thanked Barry politely for the lemonade, but otherwise he hardly said two words together. He entertained himself with a deck of cards, occasionally surveying the room and everyone in it with a watchful, placid sort of curiosity. Despite his reserve, there was something sensitive about his manner, a measured quality to his movements that suggested a gentle spirit. It reminded Barry of Kyle. He had the fleeting thought that the two boys might get on well, if they ever happened to meet. 

It had been well past sundown by the time Miss Lance and Connor had helped Queen stumble back upstairs to their room, and Hal was so drunk that Barry feared he wouldn’t be able to stay upright on Arkillo if they tried to ride home. With no other room to let at the saloon and no hotel in town, Barry had sheepishly knocked on the Dibnys’ door. 

Sue was already asleep, but Ralph had let them in and offered the guest bedroom for their use. At this, Hal had blinked himself awake long enough to express his gratitude, leaving Barry scrambling to cover his mouth before his caterwauling woke the whole town. Ralph had laughed himself sick and then sent them up to bed. 

Hal had begun to snore almost as soon as Barry poured him onto the mattress. Barry hadn’t slept nearly as well himself, preoccupied with the whirlwind events of the day and not entirely sure how to feel about how it had all turned out. 

Barry started in on his breakfast. Hal emerged from his nest of blankets to claim his share, complaining that Barry would eat it all. Once he’d started sopping up the alcohol sloshing in his belly with food, he perked up mighty quick. 

“How soon d’you reckon the wire office is open? I’m gonna wire Tom and the address Ollie gave me for John.” 

Hal was industriously picking out the tomatoes from his hash and piling them onto Barry’s plate, so Barry gave him some of his fried mushrooms. “I thought you believed they were telling the truth,” he said, watching Hal cram a whole slice of toast in his mouth. 

“I believe it, but I can’t _believe_ it. How fast are your lines out here?” 

“We’re connected directly to Metropolis. I reckon it shouldn’t take more than six or seven hours to get a reply from Texas if the clerk on John’s end is worth his salt.” 

As soon as they’d finished breakfast and gotten dressed, Hal excused himself to go take care of the wires. Barry stayed to talk with the Dibnys for a while. They weren’t opening the store this morning, as one of their front windows had been smashed the evening before. 

“I reckon it was a brick,” Ralph said, taking a rinsed dish from Sue to dry. “Shattered the whole pane, so we’ll need to get a replacement made custom in Metropolis.” 

“Did they take anything?” Barry asked, concerned. 

“So far as Sue ‘n me can tell, nothin’ big was hornswaggled. Some things were kicked over, and we found the sweets jars broke on the floor. That might not’ve been on purpose.” 

“I haven’t had the chance to do a full inventory yet," Sue said.

“Who would break your window for candy?” Barry shook his head. “Sounds almost like a child did it.” 

“That’s what I thought. Maybe some kids got a little too rowdy. Or maybe the window was broke on accident, and they decided it wouldn’t hurt to pop in and take somethin’ so long as they were in hot water anyway. Hard to say.”

“Have you told the sheriff?” 

“I dunno,” Ralph hedged. “Seems a bit harsh, don’t it?”

Sue scrubbed the plate in her hands too vigorously. She looked frustrated. “The window’s going to be expensive, Ralph.”

“I know,” Ralph said snappishly. 

It was very unlike him to speak to Sue in that way. Barry bit his lip and busied himself with his coffee; the conversation moved along, but the tension between the Dibnys didn’t ebb. Barry hastened to make his excuses so they could have some privacy to hash things out, thanking them again for their hospitality before he left to find Hal. 

On the way, he stopped by the saloon to purchase two bottles of good wine and ducked into the smithy. He’d hoped to find Vic there to thank him firsthand for his help yesterday, but he was off on an errand; Barry left one bottle with Silas and then swung briefly by the Currys’ to deliver the other. 

He found Hal sitting on the boardwalk in front of the telegraph office. Young Connor was crouched next to him, and they were playing marbles with a ring carved in the dirt. Miss Lance lounged against the nearest trough, watching them keenly. 

Barry tipped his hat to her. “Morning, ma’am.” 

“Morning.” She uncrossed her arms and looked him over. “And it’s Dinah. I hate being called ‘Miss Lance’, and ‘ma’am’ is even worse. Just Dinah is fine.” 

Hal flicked his marble, grunting under his breath when it missed the pile and bounced over the edge of the ring. He sat back to let Connor take his turn. The boy expertly scattered every last one of them without a single whoop of triumph, his only tell a slight, pleased smile. Hal whistled, visibly impressed. While Connor redrew the makeshift board, Hal leaned back on his hands to look up at Barry. 

“I sent ‘em both high priority,” he said. “Could take a week to hear back from Tom. He travels a lot for work. Clerk said it might be a few hours for John’s, if he’s nearby when it comes in.” 

“We can wait,” Barry assured him. “But we should be back in time for supper, in case Guy starts to worry.” 

Despite his earlier urgency, Hal seemed surprisingly at ease. Barry sat with him to watch the game. With his steady aim, Connor won almost every round, playing with a quiet confidence in his own ability. Hal took his losses with good grace, continuing the conversation he’d been having with Miss Lance all the while.

Barry listened curiously. Miss Lance hailed from California, not too far from the small settlement near the coast where Hal had been born. They were talking of the ocean, reminiscing about sea creatures they’d spotted in tidal pools and which cliffs were best for diving. To Barry, who had never seen the sea in his life, it was fascinating. 

“You reckon you’ll go back someday?” Hal asked her.

“To tell the truth, I do miss it. But Ollie and I have spent so long on the road that I think it might be hard to settle in one place again.” 

“It ain’t as hard as you’d think, if you got a good reason.” 

Miss Lance’s gaze flitted back over to Connor, who was now sketching industriously in the dirt with his stick. Her brown eyes seemed to soften. “Is that so?”

Hal straightened up. “Say, Ollie mentioned you’d be stickin’ around to rest up. Why don’t you stay with us? It’s gotta be cheaper than lettin’ a room at Gold’s for weeks. Barry don’t mind. Do you, Bar?” he added, obviously as an afterthought.

Barry could hardly say otherwise in front of the lady. Honestly, he was a little baffled; Hal had been suspicious of Queen and Miss Lance yesterday, even after sharing drinks. What on earth had he and Miss Lance been discussing this morning that had made him change his mind so completely? Before Barry could cobble together a courteous response, Miss Lance was already shaking her head. 

“No reason to impose on your family, Hal. We were planning to camp down outside of town anyway. We’re used to the outdoors, aren’t we, Connor?”

Connor nodded. 

“Well, if you need some grass to pitch your tent on, we got a whole farm,” Hal pointed out. “There’s room. I bet Wally and Kyle would be tickled to have a new friend.” 

Miss Lance declined again, and Barry was relieved to have escaped hosting guests. Not that he didn’t like guests, of course, but it would be nice to enjoy a little peace and quiet after so much ruckus. And he wasn’t sure that he wanted Queen on his property either. Something about the man set his teeth on edge. 

After another hour, Miss Lance and Connor returned to their room to wake up Queen, who had been sleeping off his overindulgence. Miss Lance wished Hal luck and promised to see about having another drink together. Connor ventured a shy smile as they disappeared into the saloon. 

Hal watched them go and then turned to Barry. “You think the sheriff is around by now? I wanna thank her for yesterday.”

“Let’s see.” 

They walked over to the Assay Office only to find that Sheriff Prince was at Dibny’s Dry Goods, examining the shattered storefront. A crowd of locals milled around, and a few folks had come inside with brooms and pails to help clean up. Barry gasped when he saw the full extent of the damage. Ralph had certainly underplayed it -- it looked like the whole window had been kicked out, and inside the store, barrels had been overturned, their contents spilled all across the floor, with several shelves completely upended. 

This didn’t look like the handiwork of a few naughty children. 

Barry wanted to help, but the store was crowded already, and Sheriff Prince clearly had her hands full. He and Hal returned to the telegraph office to wait. They listened to the commotion from afar, watching as people emerged from their homes to mosey down and have a look-see at what was causing all the fuss. 

“It’s a damned shame,” Hal commented. “You think Ralph and Sue’ll be okay?” 

“They may not be able to order everything they usually do for a while, but I think they will be. I just don’t understand why anyone would do that to them -- or who, for that matter. Everyone likes Ralph and Sue. They’re good people. And we all depend on the store.” 

“Some folks just like raisin’ hell, Bar.”

The door opened behind them, the young Western Union clerk poking his head around it. “Got your ‘gram from Texas for you.” 

In a blink, Hal was on his feet. Before Barry could even stand, he was back, gripping the paper in both hands and looking almost frantic. “I can’t concentrate, my head’s all in a state. Read it to me.”

Barry took the telegram slip and unfolded it. 

_Finishing some business but intend to travel your way very soon STOP Much to explain STOP Be safe until then STOP Give Kyle my love STOP Tell Guy I’ll bring the lye STOP -- J.B.S._

“It’s him,” Hal said, before Barry could even finish reading the initials. “He was always tellin’ Guy he had such a filthy mouth that he needed more than soap to----” He broke off, blinking rapidly. “It’s really _him_.”

Barry reached out to return the paper to him, but Hal grabbed both his arms instead. 

“He’s alive, Barry! He’s. . . . My God. He was lookin’ for us, all this time. Can you believe it?” Hal tugged him into an embrace, his lips smacking against Barry’s before he leaned away to exclaim, “Guy’s gonna shit a brick!”

Barry laughed too, playing along gamely as Hal spun him in a gleeful circle and kissed him again. Hal’s joy was infectious, all the other worries of the day suddenly seeming so much smaller. They were attracting more than a few stares, but he couldn’t bring himself to care about gossip. His own relief washed over him in waves. Stewart was alive. Sinestro was behind bars where he belonged and awaiting trial. Hal was safe. No one was hunting him. There was no danger now, no looming threat to tear their family apart.

He cupped Hal’s face in his hand and kissed him until they both lost their breath. Hal broke the kiss and then buried his face in Barry’s neck. 

“Let’s go home,” he mumbled into Barry’s shirt collar. “I want to go _home_.” 

***

Barry put Arkillo through his paces. They rode just short of a gallop all the way back to the farm, Hal’s arms cinched tight around his waist. Their hasty arrival must have alerted Itty and got the boys’ attention, because Wally and Kyle were already on the porch, waving. 

Guy followed them out the door at a more sedate pace. He looked annoyed, but underneath the scowl, Barry thought he looked relieved. 

“Where the hell you been?” he groused, as Barry pulled Arkillo up to the porch and they dismounted. “You were s’posed to be back this morning!” 

Hal laughed. Without a word, he grabbed Kyle’s hand and then Guy’s arm and dragged them both back into the cabin. Wally started to follow, but Barry scooped him up onto his hip for an embrace. Wally’s arms squeezed around his neck. 

“You were gone a long time,” Wally observed, his tone a hair shy of scolding. “You missed breakfast. Guy burned the slap-jacks all up.” 

“Sorry. We’ll have a good supper tonight, I promise.” He settled Wally more firmly on his hip -- he was so much taller now, and it wasn’t as easy as it had once been to lug him around. He took Arkillo’s reins with his free hand. Itty circled around his legs, whining until he reached out to pat her head. “How about you and me give Arkillo some water and a good brushing down?”

“Okay.” He craned around, though, as they started toward the barn. “Hal forgot to give me a hug. What’s wrong with his eye?” 

“He had a little accident. You can hug him when we come back.”

“Okay. How come everyone went inside so fast?”

Barry smiled. “They have a lot to talk about,” he said.

Everyone was in high spirits that night. Barry did his best to cook up a proper celebratory supper, just like he’d promised. They took their plates out on the porch to watch the sunset, and when the light changed, they lit some lanterns and lounged outside in the warm spring air. Wally and Kyle were allowed to stay up playing games until they could hardly keep their eyes open any longer.

Hal didn’t tell Barry exactly what had been said between him and Guy and Kyle, and Barry didn’t ask. It was plain to see that it had meant something intensely private to them; the way Guy’s eyes were slightly red and bloodshot spoke loudly enough.

Kyle was elated, quicker to accept the good news. Every other word out of his mouth was ‘Johnny’. He wanted to know why Johnny hadn’t written to them before now. He wanted to know when Johnny was coming. He wanted to know if they could write and tell him to come sooner. He wanted to go through all his drawings and decide which ones Johnny would like best, so he’d know that Kyle had been practicing his art just like he’d told him to.

Wally didn’t really understand what all the fuss was about, but he was happy that Kyle was happy. Both boys went to bed in a thoroughly good mood despite the late hour. 

Guy retired to the barn just after two in the morning, but Hal was clearly in no state to sleep, and Barry felt about the same. He made some coffee instead and brought it out to the porch for them to share. 

They sat together under a quilt to watch the stars, and Hal dimmed the lanterns so they could see them better. It was a beautiful night. 

“It feels wrong,” Hal said, out of the blue. 

Barry had been lounging on his elbows, but at this he sat up. “What does?”

“All this. After all this time. . . I spent so long thinkin’ about how it would go when he caught up to me again, when my luck ran out -- and to have to it end like this -- to have it be this easy ----”

“You’ve built it up in your head. It might take a while to come down.” 

Hal stared at his coffee. “I suppose.”

Barry covered the mug with his hand, daring to nudge Hal’s chin until their eyes met. “Hal,” he said softly. “It’s done. It’s over.”

Hal’s expression was pensive. “It wasn’t ‘cause I didn’t trust you.” 

“What?”

“I do trust you, maybe more than I trust anybody in the world. I should’ve told you afore we got married, like how you told me about your pa.”

“Well, it’s alright.”

“No, it ain’t. I saw your face.” 

Barry hesitated. The truth of it was, it _had_ hurt. It had hurt sorely to feel that he was growing closer to Hal only to find that the seed of it had been a lie. Understanding why Hal had done it didn’t make it sting any less. But really, what was the point of holding that bitterness over their heads for the rest of their lives? Hal hadn’t come to him and compounded his lie with more lies. He’d told Barry the truth, offered him a divorce, even though that would mean he’d be laid low again and left with nothing. 

The choices a man made when his back was to the wall were what made him a man. Hal had shown Barry his shame. He’d let Barry help. And the fact of the matter was, more than all of that, he cared for Hal. He cared for Hal very much. And maybe. . . maybe Hal didn’t know that. Maybe he’d lied to Barry partly because he never thought he’d be staying in the first place. Maybe he hadn’t believed that Barry cared enough to want the truth. Coming into their marriage as they had, he might have figured his past didn’t matter so long as he held up his end of the bargain in providing help around the farm and being a warm body in Barry’s bed. 

Barry hated that thought. Oh, he knew that Hal was fond of him; Hal made no effort to conceal it when he disliked someone, and in Barry’s view they’d taken a friendly shine to each other from the start. But that he assumed that Barry would want to be free of him at the first sign of trouble meant that he didn’t understand, not really.

They’d done everything backwards. How did one go about courting their spouse? 

“It’s already forgiven,” Barry said finally. 

Hal’s eyebrows rose. “Just like that.” 

He shrugged. “Just like that.”

“You’re a queer fish, Barry Allen.” Hal pulled the quilt up around their necks and shuffled closer. His head settled in the crook of Barry’s shoulder, a warm, pleasant weight. “I’m one lucky sonuvabitch.”

***

By mid-April, the apple trees had broken their first buds. 

Barry walked from tree to tree, examining the branches for new growth and checking the bark for signs of invasive pests. For the most part, the leaves were coming in full and thick, stretching into green canopies as they grew into each other. If the regular rains continued into the summer, it would be a plentiful harvest this year. 

Wally lollygagged behind him, more interested in hunting for insects in the grass than he was in learning how to inspect the crops. Barry pried him away from stirring up an anthill to guide him back to his lesson. 

“Tell me if this tree here has crown rot, Wally.”

“Yup.” 

“You didn’t even look at it. Try to pay attention.” He knelt down and ran his bare hands over the exposed roots, encouraging Wally to do the same. “Here now, feel the bark. Is it slimy?”

“No.” 

“Is the color right here darker than the rest of the bark?”

Wally turned to look at a passing butterfly, watching intently as it landed on a nearby wildflower. Barry tried not to sigh. 

“Okay, how about this: is this tree girdled, or is it not?”

Wally eyeballed the trunk and then shrugged one shoulder. “I forgot what that means.” He stilled and then perked right up, rocking on his heels. “I hear somebody!” 

Barry stood and listened. It sounded like riders, maybe on the other side of the creek, moving east at a full gallop. 

“Is Hal coming to bring us lunch?” Wally asked eagerly. 

“I told him we’d be back in time for lunch,” Barry reminded him. “But let’s go see who it is, shall we? It might be Doc Natu.” 

They went back the way they’d come, collecting Sapphire from her hitch post as they passed by. Clearing the brush line, they were able to peer down into the valley alongside the creek as it wound up toward the old Scott plot. The two horsemen were at quite a distance, but it wasn’t hard to recognize the herculean rider in the front. 

“Hi, Mister Clark!” Wally hollered, waving wildly above his head. After a moment, he lowered his arms, looking disappointed. “He didn’t hear.” 

“He’s too far away, kiddo.” Barry shaded his eyes, fanning himself with his hat; it wasn’t summer yet, but the spring weather was heating up fast this year. He studied the other rider but didn’t recognize him or the smaller person -- a child, probably -- who was sitting double on the saddle behind him. Maybe a city friend of Clark’s had come to stay with the Kents. 

As Barry watched, the riders followed the hairpin turn of the creek, and then he recognized the other man with a flicker of surprise. 

Why the devil was Clark out riding with Bruce Wayne?

It couldn’t be Wayne, because the local gossip mill would have caught wind of his return. Last Barry knew, the man had been wintering with Luthor in Metropolis.

But no -- no, that _was_ Wayne. That was the same elaborate, ridiculous riding costume, the same white gloves and wide-brimmed hat. That costume had been the most memorable thing about Wayne because of its utter incongruity with the man’s riding prowess. When Barry had met him, he’d immediately noticed the man’s clumsiness with the reins and his nervous, laughably amateur seat. He rode like he’d barely spent any time with a horse that wasn’t attached to a carriage.

But now Wayne was in top form -- even from this distance, Barry could see the deft, precise way the stallion was handled, the easy saddle posture of someone who was entirely comfortable with himself and the beast underneath him. He didn’t look at all like someone who had never bothered to take proper lessons, or even someone who had spent a year practicing. He looked like someone who had grown up in the saddle.

Wally pulled on his trouser leg. “Uncle Barry, are we done? I’m hungry.”

Barry shook himself, casting one last bewildered glance at the riders as they jumped the low fence that marked the boundary of his land. “Sure,” he said. “I think we're done.”

***

There was no service on Sunday, but Barry hitched up the cart anyway. He needed to fetch some sundries and intended to send a wire for Professor Palmer to inform him that he wouldn’t be coming for the conference. Though Hal argued that he ought to go since there was nothing to worry about, Barry didn’t feel comfortable leaving for several weeks at a stretch, not right now. There was always next year. 

The morning had been a chaotic one. Queen and Miss Lance had arrived unexpectedly with Connor and all their belongings in tow, having decided to take up Hal’s offer of a patch to plant their tent on. Barry was less than pleased, but of course he hadn’t put up a fuss. That would have been very impolite. 

In any matter, what was done was done. They had guests now, so Barry needed to buy more food. He let Hal deal with figuring out where to put them and got Wally ready to go. Kyle might have come too, but Barry had seen him eyeing Connor with interest. More than that, he’d become reluctant to leave the farm for more than an hour or two at a time so as not to miss John’s arrival. Guy had explained several times that John might not even come for a few months longer, but Kyle was bound and determined to be there to greet him first. 

Off they went. Barry and Wally amused themselves with a riddles contest as they traveled, and if nothing else, the weather was perfect for a ride. 

They rolled into town just in time to see Clark push Lex Luthor into a horse trough. 

“Holy----!” Barry jerked Sapphire to a stop, unable to believe his eyes. 

That was Lex Luthor all right, sitting in the trough in front of the saloon with water sluicing off his coat -- and that was definitely Clark, standing above him with fists clenched. A crowd circled loosely around them, keeping a wide berth. There were a few shocked titters and then silence. After a strained pause, Luthor stood, water sloshing over the shallow sides as he moved. He calmly began to wring out his sodden cuffs. 

“What’s going on, Uncle Barry?” 

“I haven’t a clue,” Barry murmured. He slipped down and then helped Wally off the bench. “Stay put for a spell.” 

As Barry reached the crowd, Sheriff Prince was arriving too, the gawking bystanders hastily parting to let her through. 

“You leave Ma and Pa alone,” Clark was saying angrily, all but hissing through his clenched teeth. “You can pick on me all you like, I don’t care, but you let them be!”

“What is this?” Sheriff Prince demanded, planting herself bodily between the two men. 

Luthor finished wiping off his face and coolly tucked the wet handkerchief back into his breast pocket. “Sheriff, I think it’s rather obvious. Mister Kent assaulted me before making unfounded, scurrilous accusations.”

Clark’s face went even redder. “Don’t play the fool, Lex. It doesn’t suit you.” 

“Clark,” the sheriff warned. 

But Clark wasn’t done. “I know you own that company,” he said, jabbing a finger in Luthor’s direction. “I know Henshaw’s under your thumb. And I know swindlin’ good people is just another day for you, but Pa’s never cheated anybody in his whole life. What I don’t know is how you got Henshaw to lie for you, but I’ll figure it out, I promise you that.”

Luthor hardly spared Clark another glance, his cold eyes shifting to the sheriff. “I don’t have the faintest idea what he’s talking about. If you’ll excuse me, madam, I’d like to tidy up.” 

Sheriff Prince nodded wordlessly. Luthor straightened his coat and strode off, his shoes squeaking faintly. 

“Does no one else have anywhere to be?” the sheriff asked the crowd at large, and the look on her face had folks scurrying away in a hurry. Barry stayed where he was.

“Clark, are you alright?” he asked. Clark hadn’t moved from where he stood, his fists still balled up at his sides. 

“You played right into his hands,” Sheriff Prince said quietly. 

“I know.” 

“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?”

“Don’t,” he said, backing away. “Not now, Diana.” 

Barry hesitated for a second longer and then made himself turn his back and walk away. This wasn’t any of his business. But whatever had happened, he was worried. It wasn’t like Clark to lose his temper like that. 

The wagon was where he’d left it, and Sapphire’s reins had been tied carelessly around the hitching post, but Wally was nowhere to be found. Barry wasn’t concerned -- Wally had probably gotten impatient and run off to the Dibnys’ to wait. Since he was close by anyway, he ducked into the wire office to leave his message for Palmer for the clerk to send on Monday. When he moseyed over to the store a few minutes later, Wally wasn’t there. 

Barry walked down the boardwalk, peering in the windows as he went, but he didn’t see a flash of red hair anywhere. His confusion was starting to turn into real alarm as he turned the corner of the smithy, and then he spotted Wally sitting on the roof of the church. 

Wally was on the _roof_. 

Barry dropped his hat and ran like the dickens. 

“Wallace West!” he cried, skidding to a halt in front of the doors. He craned his neck, trying to see how on earth he’d managed to clamber up there -- the angle of the steeple was sharp, and the belfry made it closer to three stories high. “Oh, my Lord. Don’t move, I’ll come get you.” 

Wally laughed. “You won’t fit up here, Uncle Barry! We’ll come down.” 

That was when Barry realized that there was another little shaver up there, hiding in the shadow of the steeple. 

“Hi, Mister,” the boy said cheerfully. He was missing one of his front teeth. His wavy black hair was working its way out of its severe arrangement, tufts going every which way around his round, expressive face. 

“That’s not a mister, that’s Uncle Barry,” Wally told him.

Quick footsteps behind him had Barry twisting around to look. Mr. Wayne was striding toward them. 

“Hi, Bruce,” the boy chirped. 

If Barry hadn’t been watching closely, he might not have seen it -- there, the barest flicker of worry on Wayne’s face, a hardening of his blue eyes. The next instant, like someone had dropped down a curtain, that look of bland indolence returned. He stopped just under the eaves. 

“Really, Dick. Come down. You’ll ruin your coat.”

“This is Dick,” Wally said unnecessarily. “He’s really good at climbing, and he likes dogs too. Can he come home with us to play with Itty?”

“Wally, let’s get you both on the ground first, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Children,” Wayne tsked. “They don’t know the value of good cloth. The boy has no idea how much I paid for that coat.” 

Barry smiled weakly. “Right.” 

Dick grasped Wally’s hand and began to lead him from the roof, his feet dancing nimbly from shingle to shingle and then onto the rickety trellis on the back wall. Wally was clumsier in finding his footholds, and Barry hovered below the trellis with his heart in his throat, preparing to catch them if they fell. As soon as Wally was in reach, he pulled him to safety. 

Dick, however, was still perched at the top of the trellis. Barry let out a cry of dismay as the boy suddenly let go, catapulting off the wall like it was a springboard. Before he could react, Wayne was there, plucking Dick right out of the air. 

“And that’s quite enough of that,” Wayne said, setting the giggling boy back on his feet. “Come along.” He walked a short distance away and then stopped, turning back like he’d already forgotten Barry was there. “Ah. What was your name, again? Armstrong?”

“Allen. Barry Allen.” 

Not looking like he particularly cared, Wayne walked on without a word, Dick trailing behind him obediently. 

Barry waited until they were out of earshot before he crouched down and took Wally’s shoulders in his hands. “What in the blue blazes possessed you to go climbing up there? You could’ve fallen and hurt yourself!” 

“Dick shared his caramels with me and asked if I was a good climber. I said yes, so we climbed up on the church roof. He’s climbed it three whole times already.” 

_Lord, give me patience_. “I don’t want you to do that again, you hear?” 

Wally pouted all the way back to the cart, his face growing even stormier when Barry made him wait in the wagon with Sapphire as punishment instead of going into the store. Ralph and Sue were busy with a large afternoon crowd, so Barry got what he needed as quickly as he could and came out, half expecting this Dick fellow to have coaxed Wally up onto another rooftop. 

Wally was still there, lying across the bench with his arms crossed. He didn’t look at Barry while he loaded the cart and didn’t say a single, solitary word until they left town. 

“Wally,” Barry sighed at last, “you knew I wouldn’t want you to climb up there and you did it anyway.” 

“You never said I couldn’t.” 

“I shouldn’t have to. It’s common sense.”

“Sorry,” Wally mumbled. 

“Thank you,” Barry said. 

They rode in silence until Wally abruptly asked, “What’s ‘ward’ mean?”

“Being a ward? Well, if someone is taken in by someone who isn’t family, they’re called a ‘ward’ of that person. It’s decided by a judge. Why?”

“Dick said he’s a ward. I thought maybe it was something bad.” 

“No, it’s not bad.” 

Wally chewed on his lip. “I’m not a ward ‘cause you’re my uncle, right?”

“Right.”

“And I wouldn’t be one even if you died, right? ‘Cause Hal would take care of me.” 

“He would,” Barry agreed, a little confused by the direction Wally’s thoughts had taken. 

“Dick’s parents died.” 

“I’m sorry to hear that.” Although it was a bit extraordinary that Wally knew that -- the two boys couldn’t have had a conversation longer than ten minutes. But children were open books sometimes. 

“You’re not allowed,” Wally said stoutly. 

“To die?” That was a tall order. “Well, I intend to live a good long time, until I’m very, very old. And I’d like you to get very, very old too, so no more climbing up on rooftops.”

When they rolled up to the farm, no one came out to meet them. Wally leapt down and ran off to Kyle and Connor, who were sitting and talking on the paddock fence. Barry started to unload the cart, waiting for Hal or Guy to come and help, but when loud laughter drifted from the open window, he realized no one was going to. Apparently, they were too engaged with their guests to bother. 

Annoyed, he unhitched Sapphire and got her put back in the barn. His thoughts wandered again to Clark, and he couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to get his ire up. Barry didn’t know anyone named Henshaw, but it seemed like there was something underhanded going on. It sounded serious, but Barry still couldn’t quite believe that Clark had actually shoved someone into a trough. Word was probably spreading like wildfire around town, and Barry couldn’t help but think that Luthor wouldn’t take that humiliation lightly; the man’s pride was second only to his greed. 

And really, what was Clark thinking, going out riding with Bruce Wayne? The man was bosom friends with Luthor, ready to open up his pocketbook in the hopes of making a quick buck by carving up their land with a railway. Clark might have bitten off more than he could chew. Maybe in a few days, once things had cooled down, he could stop by the Kents’ place and see if he wanted a sympathetic ear.

Returning to the cart, Barry climbed into the wagon bed and heaved a few of the grain sacks onto the ground, swearing under his breath when he realized the cornmeal bag had sprung a leak all over. 

He almost tripped over his own feet when Hal’s head suddenly popped over the lip of the wagon. 

“What’d that flour ever do to you?” he said, grinning. 

Barry heaved a sigh. 

Hal’s brows drew together, his smile dimming a bit. “Hey. You run into trouble?”

“You could say that.” He leaned forward to let his forehead rest briefly on Hal’s, and felt a little better for it. “It’s been a very strange day.” 

* * *

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**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Hoosegow = bastardized Spanish for jail/courthouse
> 
> Just for the delightful mental picture, Ollie has a fuck-off enormous mustache, complete with mutton chops. Also this Dinah is Jurnee Smollett-Bell's excellent Dinah. 
> 
> Welp, guess that's it for Sinestro. I'm sure he'll never show up again. ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)


	9. Flint and Tinder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Little fires turn into conflagrations.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second to the last chapter! Finally! 
> 
> Warnings: language, references to past torture, explicit sexual content, jealousy, references to Native American genocide, period-typical racism/sexism, rough (consensual) sex, Barry's passive-aggressiveness.

* * *

FLINT AND TINDER

* * *

* * *

“Where did Hal go?” Barry asked.

Guy took his sweet time replying as he finished nailing on a new kitchen chair leg. Apparently, he had gotten it into his head that Barry’s furniture was of a shoddy quality and had a mind to slowly reinforce or refinish it all -- without asking for permission, of course -- when there wasn’t farm work to be done. 

Barry watched him for a moment, keeping a lid on his impatience. Hal had promised he would be finished with his errands before noon so he could help sort out the shed, but it was half-past one and he was nowhere to be found. “Guy,” he prompted, to which the man grunted and finally looked up from his hammer, two nails clamped between his teeth.

“He’s down’wi Queen ‘n ’is gal a’camp,” he mumbled.

“Oh.” 

Guy spat the nails onto the floor. “Kyle was beggin’ him to take him to see the kid so’s the two’a them and Wally could go swimmin’.”

That made sense. When Kyle wasn’t at the Queens’ creekside camp to play with Connor, he was talking about Connor and how nice and fun he was and how he was a better marksman than anyone in the world except his pa. Kyle was smitten with his new friend. It wasn’t surprising that Hal had given in to his pleading, especially given that Hal seemed to take every opportunity to wander down to the creek to have a laugh with Queen and Dinah these days. 

Not that Barry minded. It was good for Hal to have friends. 

“He must’ve forgotten,” Barry remarked. Guy was giving him a narrow, beady-eyed stare now, and he felt himself shifting from foot to foot, suddenly and unaccountably awkward. “Well. I reckon I’ll be out in the shed if you need me.”

“Chrissakes, you could just go join ‘em iff’n it bothers you that much. S’not like Queen would boot you off your own land, y’know. Even with the bad blood.” 

“We don’t have bad blood,” Barry said, annoyed. 

“Uh huh.” Guy plucked up one of the nails and positioned it in place. “You two get on like Christ and the tax collector.” 

Barry refrained from asking which one of them was which. 

All right, it was true that he wasn’t as enamored of their guests as everyone else seemed to be. He liked Dinah fine, sure, but Queen was a different beast. Everything about the man got Barry’s guff up, from his slick city manners to his outrageous politics to the overly familiar way he teased Hal. For his part, Queen had bluntly told Barry to his face that he was as interesting as a bucket of lukewarm milk. 

It was better if they both kept their distance.

Barry decided to cut this distasteful subject off at the knees. “When Hal gets back, tell him to come find me.” 

“I ain’t your goddamn messenger boy.” Guy went back to his task, hammer banging hard enough to rattle the floorboards. 

Barry sighed inwardly and gave up, beating an unhappy retreat. Once he got to work in the shed, it was easy enough to turn his attention to the satisfying sweat on his brow and the important business at hand. 

Well, mostly. 

The truth was, he’d been looking forward to an afternoon working with just Hal. He’d had a notion that chores away from the house would give them some privacy. Life had settled down into some semblance of normalcy after the bounty scare, but spring planting was in full swing; the days were busy and the nights were spent sleeping like the dead in preparation for tomorrow’s hard labor. It seemed that he’d hardly had five minutes with Hal that weren’t spent in the company of someone else, whether it was working or cooking or minding the boys. They hadn’t stargazed on the porch or had a reading lesson for _weeks_ now, and apart from a bit of furtive groping in the barn that was interrupted by Kyle, they hadn’t really had the time or energy to make love either. 

He missed Hal. It wasn’t so unreasonable for a man to want to talk to his husband now and again, was it?

The sun was well past its zenith and Barry had gotten the better part of the shed cleared when voices heralded the arrival of the others. The boys looked like they were only half dry from their swim. Wally had clambered up on Kyle’s back for a piggyback ride; Kyle was struggling under his weight and wobbling dangerously every few feet, which had both of them in stitches. 

Barry smiled despite himself. 

“Alright, alright! That’s enough of that,” he heard Hal say. “Come down, chickabiddy, or those skinny arms are gonna pop clean off.” 

Still giggling, Wally slipped down, and then he caught sight of Barry standing outside the shed. He tore off, running straight for Barry’s legs. 

“Uncle Barry,” he cried, clinging to Barry’s knees like a squirrel on a tree trunk, “Miss Dinah says me and Kyle can camp tonight with Connor! We’ll cook supper over the fire and play games, and Mister Ollie says he’ll tell us stories about ghosts and scary things. Hal says we can go, but only if you say yes too. Please, Uncle Barry, please!”

Barry contemplated his nephew’s big, pleading doe eyes and took a moment to consider the request. He might not trust Queen as far as he could throw him, but over the past few weeks he’d gotten a close look at their guests and how they behaved with each other. It was plain that Queen and Dinah were still learning how Connor ticked, and vice versa. Neither of them seemed to know quite what to do with a child. Even so, Connor appeared content enough with them, and he was healthy and well-fed and cared for. If Dinah was there, there didn’t seem to be any real danger in allowing Wally to stay overnight. The creek bend where they’d made their camp was hardly a mile’s walk from the house. 

Still, Barry wavered. Wally hadn’t spent a single night away from him since he was a baby. What if he got his ears filled with Queen’s ghost story nonsense and woke up frightened and wanting Barry? It was on the tip of his tongue to say no, but then he remembered that this was also Guy’s poker night. 

Every other Friday, Guy rode to town to play cards with Mr. Gold, Beetle, Ralph, Miss Bea, and Miss Tora and then stayed overnight at the saloon. (Hal was of the opinion that Guy was actually spending the night at Miss Tora’s, but Barry quickly put a stop to that talk. A lady’s honor wasn’t to be speculated about.) With his habit of overindulging while he gambled, Guy wouldn’t drag his hungover self back to the farm until mid-day tomorrow at the earliest.

With Guy in town and the boys out camping, he and Hal would have the whole house to themselves. 

“You can go,” Barry said. 

Hal and Kyle both looked surprised. Wally threw up his arms with a whoop of glee and hugged Barry’s knees before scampering off helter-skelter. 

“Go help him pack up your things, kiddo,” Hal said, giving Kyle a nudge. 

“Hal, if Johnny-----”

“I swear on my daddy’s bones that I’ll come fetch you at the first sign of his horse,” Hal said, in the exasperated tones of someone who’d said the same thing a hundred times and twice more for good measure. “Go on now, Kyle, get.” He turned back around and gave Barry a pleased look. 

“What?” 

“That was good of you, that’s all. Chickabiddy is awful excited. I was tryin’ to cushion it for him if you said no. They’ll have a rip-roarin’ time. Kyle and Connor will watch out for him, I promise.” 

Despite his bravado, it was harder than it should have been to kiss Wally goodbye and let Hal walk him back over to the campsite with Kyle. He made himself return to his work, doing his best to bury any misgivings. Wally was growing up, and like it or not, Barry would have to get used to watching him leave. 

He finished up the shed around suppertime. Guy was heading out just as he returned, wearing his lucky hat and trying to act like he wasn’t bursting at the seams to see Tora. Barry wished him good luck with his game.

He brought up some potatoes from the root cellar, along with a few fresh fish they’d caught the day before from the creek. Hal loved fish. They hadn’t had it in a while, and he thought it would be nice to have something special tonight, something that Hal would enjoy especially. Tired as he was from all the lifting and piling, he put his back into making a cornmeal breading for the fillets, crisping them up with quartered potatoes and a splash of vinegar. 

He set two places at the table with the good china. He lit a few tallow candles, arranging a fistful of wildflowers from the yard in an empty jar between them. He hummed to himself, enjoying the peace and quiet and nervously anticipating Hal’s reaction. With the scene arranged, he covered the skillet with a plate to keep it warm and sat down with some tea to read a book and wait, Itty curled up on his lap. 

Two hours later, Hal still hadn’t come home, and their supper had gone cold.

When Hal finally traipsed in the door past seven o’clock without the decency to look ashamed of himself, Barry was in no humor to get up and greet him. 

Hal shut the door and peeled off his vest, thumping Itty’s sides as she wriggled around his legs. He spotted Barry at the table and smiled. “The boys are all settled with Dinah and Ollie, and I had supper with ‘em before I left. Hope you don’t mind. Somethin’ smells good, though.” 

Barry nursed his tea silently. 

Hal scratched Itty again and then fetched a mug from the cupboard. Barry watched him as he fixed himself some camomile, whistling under his breath. He strolled over to the table and sprawled down with a satisfied groan. “Pass the sugar, would’ja?”

Barry pushed it toward him. 

Hal had dolloped two spoonfuls into his tea before he abruptly stilled. “The shed. Damn. I plumb forgot.” 

“I figured.” He stirred his own drink vigorously. “It’s okay.” 

“I meant to be home to help. But Ollie had somethin’ he needed to talk about, and I---”

Barry let the spoon drop to the table with a sharp _clink_. He didn’t want to hear Hal’s excuses. He didn’t want to hear another word about rapscallious, peacocking city slickers with silver tongues and wrongheaded notions. “I _said_ it’s okay.” 

“You’re steamed at me,” Hal said slowly. 

“No, I’m not. I just think maybe you should’ve stayed there tonight too, since it seems to me that’s where you’d rather be.” 

Hal’s lips parted, and he looked so bewildered that Barry felt a pang of regret -- at least until he spoke again. 

“Alright, I’ll bite. What’s got your britches twisted?”

“I beg your pardon if I’m tired after doing the work of two men.” 

A flicker of anger skated across Hal’s face. “I told you I forgot! If this is you and Ollie----”

“Don’t tell me he doesn’t take pleasure in trying to stir up trouble. It’s disrespectful, the way he acts with you. He oughtn’t be fooling like that around Dinah.”

“Is _that_ what all this is about? Dinah don’t give a hoot.” 

Barry’s jaw tightened, but before he could get up from his chair and leave, Hal stood instead. “No. You don’t get to throw around accusations and then storm off. I don’t know what’s got into you, but I don’t like it one bit. It ain’t either one of ‘em in my bed, is it?”

“No, I didn’t----Hal, I wasn’t trying to imply----”

“‘Cause it sure sounded like you were about to.”

That knocked the wind out of Barry’s sails. He floundered. “I didn’t mean _that_. Not on your part. It’s . . . it’s only that he does it in front of me. You never tell him to hush up, and it . . . If I don’t give you enough attention, or. . . I’m sure you’d like it if I was, if I knew how to . . . how to talk flattery like he does, how to be----”

Hal sat forward and grabbed him by the ears. The kiss had a spark of anger to it, their teeth clacking as neither one of them would cede control of it. Then Hal’s lips suddenly softened, his mouth opening to Barry’s tongue. 

The next few minutes were like getting caught up in a twister. Hal was a wild thing, and Barry was desperate to have him. They tore at their clothes, kissing and biting all the while, Hal kicking off his trousers just as Barry tossed his shirt across the kitchen. Barry tried to steer him toward the bedroom, but somehow they ended up against the wall instead, and by the time his rational mind caught up with his body, his hands were already fisted hard in Hal’s hair and two of Hal’s oil-slick fingers were knuckle-deep inside him. 

He heard himself make a frankly embarrassing noise. 

Hal’s fingers crooked and then stilled. “This is . . . I ain’t hurtin’ you, darlin’?” 

Barry stretched, hooking a foot behind Hal’s knee to steady himself. His legs were already trembling; he wondered whether he’d even be able to stay upright. “No, no. Hurry up,” he managed, and he dug his fingernails into the grooves between the wall boards and held on for dear life. 

Hal wasted no time in mounting him, his teeth set into the back of Barry’s neck. It burned like the devil. He distantly heard himself gasping at the overwhelming heat and slow pressure, the thick, hard heft of Hal inside him. There was a moment of stillness, limbs being braced against the floor, against the wall. Hal’s bite turned into wet kisses, pressed fervently up and down his neck as his hips started to rock. 

Barry turned his cheek against the wall, his belly tied up in knots with excitement. Hal had taken him before but was always careful with Barry in a way he wasn’t with himself; the novelty of being handled greedily was thrilling him in a way he’d probably be ashamed about later. He found himself pushing back eagerly against every thrust, his groans coming fast and frantic over the slap of their bodies. Hal’s chest was a blazing line of heat against his back, one hand braced on the wall and the other squeezing around him. 

It was over quick, the pleasure peaking with such intensity that his ears rang from his own shout. Hal shuddered and groaned behind him. 

For a long moment, they just stood there against the wall, trying to catch their breath. 

Stubble scratched against Barry’s skin as Hal’s face came to rest against his nape. “ _Goddamn_. That was-----was that okay? I didn’t hurt you none?”

Barry chuckled weakly, his body still coming down from the illicit thrill of it all. “I’m fine. I’m wonderful.” 

Hal rubbed his shoulder and then pulled out carefully. Barry pressed his face against the cool wood again, wincing a little but already missing the feeling of being so close. He might not be up to riding anywhere for a few days. 

“You look a mite shaky, Bar. Didn’t you eat yet? I’ll get you somethin’.” 

“That’d be nice. I need a towel first.” 

Hal picked up his discarded shirt and handed it over. 

_“Hal.”_

“It’s all goin’ in the wash the same, ain’t it?”

Barry sighed, but he took it. Beggars couldn’t be choosers. 

They washed up, and then Hal fetched what remained of the week’s bread and some salted ham from the pantry. “You want me to toast it with cheese?” Hal asked, and he pulled the lid off the skillet and blinked down at the ruined fish inside. He cut a confused glance at Barry and then looked around the kitchen like he’d only just seen it, his eyes darting from the pan on the stove to the two plates set on the table, the lit tapers between them. His gaze lingered on the jar of flowers, and Barry had to look away.

“Oh,” Hal said. 

Barry felt far too naked, suddenly.

“I’m sorry, Bar. I didn’t realize.”

Barry’s stomach plummeted with dread, but he didn’t have time to pull away before Hal was striding over. He kissed him again, gentler this time. As soon as their lips parted, he said, “I was always a sure thing. Nobody ever romanced me before. Like I told you, I ain’t good at bein’ soft. I’m sorry I ruined it.” 

Barry smoothed his hands down Hal’s arms. “No, I’m sorry. I should’ve told you what I planned for tonight and asked you to be back. I’ve gotten rusty at this, it’s been so long. I should’ve asked first if this was even . . . if you liked this---” 

“Yes,” Hal interrupted. “I would’ve liked it. I _do_ like it, with you.” His eyes slid to the table arrangement again, almost curious. “I never got flowers before.” 

“They’re just from the yard. Not like proper hothouse flowers.” 

Hal gave him a perplexed look. “Flowers are flowers. They still smell nice.” He glanced at them again, and then back to Barry. “I don’t want flowers from nobody but you.” 

Barry kissed him in apology, hoping that Hal could feel his regret.

Hal toasted their sandwiches, and they ate in contemplative silence, sharing a bottle of beer between them. After the last crumbs were gone, they moved from the table to lie down in front of the stove, banking up the fire to heat their bare skin. Before too long, their hands started wandering again.

They didn’t make it to the bedroom until much later that night. Barry all but collapsed into the mattress, tired and satisfied and sore all over. Hal fell asleep in an instant; Barry dozed a little and then woke again, his mouth dry and his muscles still aching pleasantly.

The linens had slipped down Hal’s back to expose the high, round curve of his buttocks, and Barry had to stop himself from reaching out to wake him up. His body was exhausted, but his baser self wanted desperately to make love again, as if he hadn’t spent the whole evening doing exactly that. 

It was almost embarrassing. He hadn’t been so lacking in self-control since he’d been a tenderfoot discovering the joys of self-abuse, or even since the early days of his first honeymoon. He felt voracious, overeager, insatiable for Hal. The instant their bodies separated, he longed to reconnect. It felt like every minute he spent away from Hal’s arms, his mouth, his body, stretched out for an age. He couldn’t get enough of embracing him, listening to his sighs and moans, watching his face as he lost himself to pleasure. It was like he couldn’t get enough of _Hal_.

He slept hard that night, waking once in a sweat from the furnace of a man nestled up against him. He kicked off the blanket and held Hal closer. They were both awake before the sun was up, and knowing that their privacy was coming to an end, they were raring to go again. Barry spread Hal underneath him, taking his sweet time until his husband’s impatient pleading wore him down. 

Hal got up to light the stove afterwards to warm up some water to wash and start breakfast, but Barry lazed in the bed a while longer. He heard Hal laugh once, loudly. Barry’s curiosity got the better of him, and he padded to the bedroom door.

It didn’t take much to figure what had tickled Hal’s funny bone -- the main room looked like the occupants of a cat-house had torn through it. There were bits of clothing strewn everywhere, a chair upended, furniture pushed out of place, and several mortifying stains dried to the floor and the surface of the table. 

Hal kept on with his snickering, poking childishly at Barry’s burning face as they scrubbed all the damning evidence away. When breakfast was ready, Hal shoveled the whole steaming mess onto one plate. They sat out on the porch to watch the sunrise while they ate, passing the plate back and forth. They didn’t talk until it was empty, their ravenous hunger satiated, and then they went right back to bed. 

“This was nice,” Barry said drowsily. Hal’s fingers were carding through his hair, and he felt almost like he could sleep again. “I wish we had more time.” 

“Mmm. It _was_ nice. You reckon we could pay Guy to go away for a week?”

Barry laughed. “The boys would still be here, though. And I’d miss them too much to have them gone for a week.” 

“Yeah, me too.” 

There was a brief silence. 

“I know you don’t like Ollie,” Hal began. 

Barry closed his eyes, embarrassed. In the brutal light of day, his injured pride looked a lot more like one of Wally’s tantrums. “What I said last night, please forget it. It was silly of me. I don’t bear him any ill will.” 

“Let me finish. I know you don’t like him. He’s like Guy -- he’s got a manner about him that some people just can’t abide. That’s okay. You don’t gotta like him.

“But I want to tell you somethin’ so you can understand him better, just between us. I was gone so long yesterday ‘cause he was tellin’ me about Connor’s ma. I figure it’s been eatin’ at him for a long time. He wanted to tell a friend. I don’t think he’s got a lot of those.” He blew on his mug, steam curling up around his nose. “Some of it is private, but some I can tell you. Connor’s a bastard. His ma was an Arikaree gal. She and Ollie had themselves a romance, back before he met Dinah, and he knew she was in the family way. He left her anyhow ‘cause he didn’t want to get tied down. Never bothered to see his own boy. Didn’t so much as send a few dollars to help. 

“Because that’s the kind of man he was. Selfish. Had more money than decency. But he went through some things, had some troubles. He met Dinah and fell in love. He got to thinkin’ about what he’d done to Connor’s ma and regretted it. He thought to make amends and went lookin’ for her and Connor, but the whole village was gone.”

“Gone?” 

“Connor was at the convent ‘cause government soldiers came in when he was a little shaver and routed everyone. They stole all the kids in the tribe, even the babies, and sent ‘em to convent schools. He never saw his ma again.”

Barry pulled his bathrobe about himself a little tighter. “That’s terrible.” 

“Ollie had no idea. It took him years to find Connor. He left everything he had behind to track him down. Look, he made mistakes. He didn’t take responsibility for Connor’s ma. He let Connor be born a bastard. He left ‘em both on their own. But him and Dinah have gone through hell and back to bring the kid home. He knows he wasn’t a good father, and he don’t know how to be one. But he’s tryin’, Barry. 

“He wanted advice. He wanted to know how I got to understand Kyle and Wally, how you raised Wally yourself even though he wasn’t your blood. So if you’re thinkin’ that he don’t regard you at all, that’s not true. It’s just that you did the right thing from the start, and he didn’t, and he wishes he did.”

Barry raised his eyebrows. “He could have asked me. I wouldn’t have said no.” 

“Well, he knows he got off on the wrong foot with you. He don’t like mail-order weddings -- thinks it’s like buyin’ somebody. Partly ‘cause of Dinah, and I guess a good friend of his got a match with a mean cuss.” Hal shook his head. “He asked me weeks ago, all concerned-like, if ours was a bad match and if I was wantin’ out. Said the way we met was nothin’ but slavery dressed up with a fancy name. You know what I said? I told him to shut up and mind his own damn business, ‘cause it wasn’t like that with me and you. I told him that I was happier than anything, and that you’re not the sort of low-down man who’d ever force anybody to do nothin’ they didn’t want to. Coulda knocked his block off, I was so mad.” 

Barry took a deep breath. “If you’re trying to improve my opinion of him, you shouldn’t have told me that.” 

“He was tryin’ to look out for me, even though we’d only just met. I like him and Dinah. They remind me of the kind of folks I used to meet back when I was travelin’. They’re fun to talk to, and they’re good people. And maybe I got caught up too much and wasn’t spendin’ the time with you when I shoulda been. I’ll be better about it. I’m not askin’ you to have ‘em over every night. Just try a little too. Try not to assume the worst of Ollie. For me?”

Barry rubbed his thumb against Hal’s cheek. “Alright,” he said, though he doubted that anything good would come of it. “I’ll try.” 

Hal looked like he wanted to say something more. 

“What is it?” Barry pressed.

“I didn’t like you bein’ jealous. I don’t like people bein’ jealous over me.”

That surprised Barry until he recollected an offhand remark Hal had made about his time with Sinestro. Of course a man getting all bullish and possessive of him would bring up unpleasant memories. “Oh, Hal. I’m sorry,” he said earnestly. “It won’t happen again.” 

“It’s alright. If I were the jealous sort, I suppose I’d’ve already fought a dozen folks.”

“What?”

“You don’t got a clue, do you? I reckon half the town is a little bit in love with you. There was more than a handful who got their hearts broke when I stole you away.”

Barry chuckled, pausing once he saw the bemused look on Hal’s face. “Oh, come on now. Don’t tease.”  
  
Hal settled his chin in his hands. “You really don’t know.”

“What?”

“About the sway you have in this place.” He tapped one ear and grinned. “I like to talk, but I know how to listen too. Folks think a lot of you. They look to you -- you and Clark -- even more than the Sheriff. Though I reckon that’s no fault of hers, it’s just that you were born and raised here, country boy. They trust you. There wouldn’t be a pack of other folks’ deeds in our cellar if they didn’t.” 

Barry gaped at him. “How did you know about that?” Sweet Louise, had he been talking in his sleep again? 

“I need to teach you how to hide things better. You think nobody’s gonna notice a big ol’ bulge in the lining of a trunk? Lordy.” 

“I feel like you want me to apologize for not having smuggled things before.” 

“It’s alright. Not everyone has the gift.”

“And you do?” 

“Well, I know an awful lot about bulges.” 

Barry laid there for a moment and then sat up and put his pillow over Hal’s face. Hal sputtered and squirmed away until Barry caught his ankle. They rolled across the mattress, scrabbling over the pillow, and ended up on a heap on the floor. Hal gleefully caught him in a headlock, and it devolved into the kind of wrestling that Barry hadn’t done since he was twelve years old and scrapping with a schoolyard bully who’d pulled Iris’s hair. By the end of it, there were goose feathers all over the bedroom, Hal was nursing scraped knuckles, and Barry was almost sure that he’d be sporting a black eye himself from catching a stray knee in the face. 

Barry couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed so hard.

***

On the morning of his twenty-ninth birthday, Barry found himself unceremoniously banished from the house. 

“Go away, Uncle Barry,” Wally said imperiously, pushing on the back of his legs with his shoulders. “You can’t come back until . . . “ He swiveled toward Hal, who looked like he was trying not to grin. “How long?”

“Until noon,” Hal said.

“Yeah, until noon. It’s a surprise!”

“Wally, you’re going to spoil it,” Kyle complained. 

“I didn’t tell him what the surprise was!”

“Alright, alright, I’m going.” Barry pulled his hat off the hook and ruffled Wally’s hair. “I’ll go check the trees.” 

“You can’t come back until then, okay?”

“I’ll steer clear of the house, I swear.” 

“Okay. But be back at noon!”

Barry left them to bake his birthday cake. Wally and Kyle were no good at keeping secrets, and Hal had made an effort to be subtle about it, but Barry had overheard him ordering the block of baker’s chocolate from Sue. Not to mention that pastry flour and a bottle of heavy cream had mysteriously shown up in their pantry. 

The boys would be pleased to show him their handiwork, though, and Barry found himself smiling as he rode out. The early May weather was warm without being hot, and he enjoyed the fresh air and silence as Sapphire followed the well-worn pig trail toward the orchard. 

Barry worked for a few hours pulling some weeds and checking the buds for new growth. When he spied the first plume of smoke drifting overhead, he wasn’t especially alarmed -- it wasn’t uncommon for folks to burn their rubbish in the spring after clearing out their winter pantries. 

The smoke kept coming, however, too thickly for a few gusts carried up by a bonfire. Barry abandoned his weeding and scaled one of the taller trees, moving up on the sturdier branches until he found a gap in the foliage cover that gave him a good view of the horizon. High above the treeline to the northeast, clouds of roiling black smoke billowed into the air in a thick column. 

That was no bonfire.

Barry slithered back down the tree as fast as he could. Leaving his gardening tools where he’d dropped them, he swung up on Sapphire and took off a gallop. 

He hadn’t even reached the creek before he caught sight of another rider barreling in his direction -- they were riding like the Devil himself was after them, dirt kicking up in plumes under the horse’s back legs. 

“Mister Allen!”

The rider was young Jesse, one of Jay’s stablehands. 

“Fire!” she cried, before she’d even drawn up close. “The whole shed’s gone up, and it’s movin’ quick towards the big house!” 

Barry swatted down his instinctive rush of panic; Jesse looked frantic enough, and it wouldn’t do to frighten her more. “I need you to do something for me now,” he said. “You know where the old Scott cabin is? Good girl. Go there and get Doc Natu. Then I want you to keep on until you get to my farm. Find my husband and tell him what happened. Reckon you can do that?”

A determined look came over her flushed, sweating face. “I can do it.” 

“Did anyone else go for help?”

“Max, my brother -- he’s ridin’ to the Kents.” 

“Good. You did well, Jesse. Go on now, hurry.” 

She was off like a shot. Barry let Sapphire loose, sitting low in the saddle to urge her on. 

The distance to the Garricks’ place had never seemed quite so far. Barry pushed hard, and Sapphire rose to the occasion, all but flying over the grass. A half-mile out, the air was already starting to stink of smoke. It was coming so thick that the sky seemed to darken, and as he crested the hill, he could hear horses screaming and men shouting. 

The house was untouched, but it was backlit by flames -- the fire must have spread around back. As they reached the porch, a paint mare burst through the smoke, frothing from the mouth with white eyes rolling. Sapphire reared up and refused to go any further. Her hooves danced nervously as she shied away, frightened by the heat and noise. Barry leapt down from the saddle, tethering her reins to the porch railing before running on foot toward the blaze. 

Barry yanked off his neckerchief and tied it around his nose and mouth as he tried to take in the chaos. The main stables were ablaze, flames licking up high in the air, and so was the shed, which already looked half-collapsed. There were a handful of stablehands shouting and running a bucket-line from the water pump, another handful frantically shoveling a trench around the back of the house. 

He searched for Jay and Joan, wiping his watering eyes as the smoke pushed through his neckerchief. A few voices called at him to join the water line or grab a shovel, but he couldn’t see the Garricks anywhere. They would be here. They wouldn’t have left their hands to fight a fire alone. Where were they?

A woman’s scream for help rent the air. 

“Joan!” Barry yelled, and he ran as fast as his legs could carry him toward the back of the stables. 

Jay was limp on the ground, half in Joan’s arms as she dragged him out the stable doors, her shoes slipping against the wet flagstones as she collapsed. The hem of her skirt was smoldering, and Barry threw himself down to beat it out with his jacket. Joan was shaking like a leaf, but he managed to get her back on her feet. They were much too close to the fire; the heat was incredible. They needed to move away, quickly, in case the beams burned through and caved in.

He hooked his arms around Jay’s chest and heaved, pulling him back toward the house with Joan stumbling after them. When they were a safe distance away, he stopped and turned Jay onto his back to put an ear to his chest. 

Thank the Lord, there was still a heartbeat.

“The smoke,” Joan cried, between fits of racking coughs. “Take him upstairs!” She grabbed Jay’s arms and tried to pull him upright again. 

Barry stopped her. He hesitated to bring the Garricks inside if the fire should spread to the house. Still, the trench was of a good size and more help would be on the way soon; maybe it was more dangerous to let Jay and Joan stay outside and fill their lungs with smoke. Making up his mind, he heaved Jay over his shoulders like a sack of potatoes. “The door,” he coughed. 

“Yes, the door,” Joan stuttered, and she ran ahead to open it. 

Somehow Barry managed to carry Jay upstairs, Joan hovering anxiously behind him the whole way. Between the two of them, they got him laid out in bed and undressed -- his clothes were charred in some places, and that meant he could be badly burned beneath. To Barry’s immense relief, what wounds there were didn’t look severe. He didn’t know what to think or what else could be wrong; Jay’s breathing was a little labored, but he was responding to touch, even if he wouldn’t wake up. 

Barry could only hope that Doc Natu would hurry. 

He and Joan rushed to and fro, closing all the windows and bringing a hot kettle and towels. He sat Jay up while she filled a wash basin with steaming water and set it on the bed. They draped the towel over the basin and Jay’s head, trying to waft the clean steam up for him to inhale. 

Joan found some smelling salts. Jay turned his head away and his eyelids fluttered, but he still didn’t wake. With nothing left to try, they took turns refilling the basin and reheating the water, talking continuously to him in the hopes of stirring him from his stupor. 

It seemed to take an eternity, but eventually swift footsteps pounded up the stairs. Doc Natu swept into the bedroom with her kit, immediately taking charge and demanding a full explanation of what had happened. Hal had followed the doctor inside, and he reached out for Barry as soon as he stepped back to give the doctor room to work.

“What the blazes happened, Bar?” he asked urgently. “The whole dang stable just collapsed.” 

“Did it? Looked like it was about to.” Barry cleared his throat and then coughed; his throat felt raw. “I’m not sure what happened. You think it can be put out?”

“It might burn itself out so long as the wind doesn’t carry it somewhere new. The hands are doin’ a good job with the trench.” Hal glanced worriedly over at Jay, his brow furrowed, and his voice dipped lower, softer. “You reckon he’s okay?”

“I don’t know yet. We’ll find out.” 

“Damn.” Hal fell silent, and Barry allowed himself to lean against him as they watched Doc Natu begin her examination. “I’m gonna go down and help with the water line, Barry. Clark’s here now, and he brought a bunch of his cattlemen. We’ll see if we can’t put this out.” 

As soon as Barry started to follow Hal from the room, Joan noticed. She extended a hand toward him with a look of distress. “Won’t you please stay with me, dear? I can’t----”

“Of course I’ll stay,” Barry assured her. 

Doc Natu studied Jay from top to toe and listened to his lungs intently before declaring that he’d simply gone faint from too much smoke. 

“I believe he’ll be fine,” she concluded. “He made it out better than I would expect from someone his age. The burns are minor. You’ll need to watch him for at least a week, Mrs. Garrick. Pay attention to his breathing and his appetite. If he starts to cough excessively, come fetch me at once. I’ll stay with you tonight to evaluate him once he regains consciousness and moves around.”

“Bless you,” Joan said fervently. 

Doc Natu waved away her gratitude. “Someone fetch some clean nightclothes. He’ll be cold when he wakes up.” 

“They’re in the other bedroom. I’ll get them.” Joan opened the door to the adjoining bedroom, but she was still pale and unsteady on her feet. Concerned that she might take a fall, Barry followed her in. She went directly to open the bureau, but she spent a while rifling through it aimlessly, like she didn’t know what she was looking for. 

“Joan,” Barry said carefully. “Joan, are you alright?”

She didn’t look at him. “Of course, dear.” 

“You didn’t hurt yourself when you fell, did you? Doc Natu can take a look at you.” 

“I’m fine.” She finally pulled out a cotton nightshirt, folding it over her arm. “Just fine. And Jay would have been fine too if he hadn’t gone in after I told him not to. I begged him not to. But would he listen to me? No! He just had to go running in after his horses! Stubborn, witless, bull-headed old goat!” She slammed the drawer shut and then burst into tears. 

Barry guided her over to sit on her vanity stool, anchoring an arm around her shoulders. He soothed her as best he could, but she hid her face in her handkerchief. 

“Oh, Barry,” she sobbed, “I very nearly lost him.” 

It was well past seven o’clock by the time Barry left the house. Jay had woken up in the early afternoon, to everyone’s immense relief. He was groggy, in pain from his burns and the smoke that had scorched his throat, but he’d been able to eat and drink, which Doc Natu said was a very promising sign. He slept through most of the day, and Joan hadn’t left his side once.

Barry hadn’t been sure whether he should leave them. 

“Go home, Barry. I’ve had a good cry and now I’ve got things well in hand,” Joan had insisted. “You’ve saved us enough today. Take Hal home and get some sleep.” 

So here he was, wandering the wreckage and looking for his husband. There was still lots of activity although the fire was nothing more than a few smoldering beams now. It hurt Barry’s heart to look at it -- all of the Garricks’ hard work, all the money and effort they’d put into their business. . . . They would have to rebuild the stalls from the ground up. They’d have to scour their property to find all the horses that had been set free. At least the land was fenced, and everyone would certainly come to help them corral their stock as soon as the news spread. 

A lonely harness sticking out of the rubble caught Barry’s eye. It didn’t look too scorched, so he rescued it and set it to the side. A lantern was underneath it, metal twisted and crushed and the glass bulb entirely shattered. It occurred to him to wonder what had started the fire. Had it been a misstruck match? A carelessly stubbed cigarette? A dropped lantern, just like this one?

What a shame. What a damned shame it was. 

It took him several minutes to find Hal, who was leaning on a shovel and chatting with one of Jay’s hands over by the remains of the shed. As soon as Hal spotted him, he bid the other fellow goodbye.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

Barry nodded. “He’s asleep again now, but Joan says we should go home. It’s getting late.” 

“Sure. They got enough men to keep watch overnight to make sure a spark don’t catch again. Let me find Guy and Arkillo and we’ll go.” 

It wasn’t until the three of them were halfway back to the farm that something occurred to Barry. He twisted around in his saddle to look at Guy, nearly unseating Hal, who was riding double behind him. “If _you’re_ here, who’s with the boys? Are they with Dinah and Queen?”

“No. They came to help too. Left ‘bout an hour before us.” 

“So who’s with the boys?”

Guy shrugged. “Nobody. And don't shit yourself, they’re fine. I made ‘em promise to stay in the house and keep their grubby paws off the stove. And the dog is with ‘em.” 

Barry bit down on a swear and urged Sapphire to walk faster. 

Mercifully, the house was still standing when they returned. Itty announced their arrival, and both boys trooped out onto the porch to meet them. 

“You missed your birthday,” Wally said mournfully. 

“I’m sorry,” Barry said. His back muscles complained, but he scooped Wally up anyway. “We can still eat the cake, can’t we?”

Wally nodded and then leaned back, eyeballing him with deep suspicion. “How’d you know your surprise was cake?”

“I . . . didn't. It was a lucky guess.” 

“Can we eat your cake now? It’s chocolate.”

“After supper.” 

“Okay.” Wally hugged him and then sniffed. “You smell funny." 

As dirty and exhausted as all three men were, no one wanted to bother filling the tub. Guy hauled a few pails of water from the well, and they washed up on the porch, shivering in the wind. Guy finished dressing first and went inside to start supper, complaining all the way.

Barry felt a little more like himself once he was clean and in fresh clothes, but Hal seemed to be struggling with the buttons on his trousers. He squinted, and only then did he realize that Hal’s hands were bleeding. 

Barry caught them up before Hal could pull away. A half-dozen blisters had risen on the thick pads of his palm. A few had already burst open. 

“What are these from?”

“I was at the end of the water line for a bit. The fire made the bucket hot. Damndest thing.” 

“They still need to be cleaned. Hold tight.” Barry ducked inside and came back with bandages and a clean rag. He had just started bathing Hal’s hands with the stinging alcohol when the front door creaked open. 

Kyle peeked around it, looking anxious. “What’s that for? Are you hurt, Hal?” 

“Just a popped blister. Go start settin’ the table, would you? Barry’ll finish patchin’ me up, and then we’ll cut the cake.” 

The door shut again. Barry could hear the clink of silverware and the shrill squeal of the cupboard doors being opened. He needed to oil those hinges again. 

“I think I’ve cleaned them all out,” he said, dabbing at the biggest blister, which was about the size of a half-dollar coin. “The others will probably burst too, because I know you’re not going to leave the bandages on.” He dropped the bloody rag back into the bowl and began wrapping Hal’s left palm. 

“You sure you’re not hurt anywhere, Barry? Couldn’t’ve been easy haulin’ a fella Jay’s size up all those stairs.” 

“Might be sore tomorrow, but it’s nothing.” He finished tying off the bandage and leaned forward for a kiss. 

Hal smelled like smoke still -- even tasted like it -- and Barry absently wondered whether he did too. And then Hal’s tongue was slipping between his teeth, and he wasn’t thinking of much at all. 

The minutes stretched on. 

Barry paid it no mind, focusing on the heat of Hal’s breath and the feeling of Hal’s ribs rising and falling steadily under his hands. They broke apart as the door opened again, but this time it was Wally hanging off the knob, looking antsy. “I’m hungry. Can we eat cake now?” 

“In a minute,” Barry said patiently, and the door shut. He slumped back against Hal. “What a day.”

He felt the puff of Hal’s sigh against his neck. “Happy birthday to you.” 

***

The air was so somber in church that Sunday that a passerby might’ve thought that everyone had gathered for a funeral. 

Reverend Corrigan’s sermon was uncommonly brief. It was clear that the crowd was more interested in peeping over their prayer books at Sheriff Prince, who was sitting stoically in the front pew. The sheriff never came to church, but today she’d called for a town-hall meeting immediately after the service. Barry had never seen the building so packed with people; it seemed that almost everyone in Keystone had come. Even Lex Luthor was sitting a few rows down, though he’d spent most of the sermon murmuring in the ear of Mr. Wayne, who was dressed for the occasion in perhaps the most ostentatious lounge coat Barry had ever seen in his life.

Wayne had brought his young ward with him too. As soon as Wally spied his new friend, Barry knew that trying to keep his nephew’s attention on the sermon was a lost cause; the two boys had gone out to play in the churchyard, with strict instructions to stay safely on the ground this time. It hadn’t taken long for Kyle to grow bored enough to follow them outside. Hal was fidgeting next to Barry like he’d rather be out there as well; he only stopped when Guy elbowed him in the ribs hard enough for Barry to hear his pained ‘ _oof_.’ 

By the time the last hymn started, everyone’s attention was well and truly lost -- the singing was more like distracted mumbling than any real tune. Reverend Corrigan recited a rather disgruntled blessing and then ceded the floor to Sheriff Prince. All across the room, heads perked up. Barry’s fingers tightened around the lip of the pew, and he felt Hal’s hand come to rest atop them. 

“Thank you, Reverend,” Sheriff Prince began. She didn’t go to the pulpit but instead stood in the aisle, her star badge shining on her breast.

“You all have work to do, and I won’t keep you from it longer than necessary. I know rumors have been circulating. I know you all are concerned for our friends and their health. I want every citizen to be informed for their own safety.” Her eyes moved from person to person, calm and measured, and despite himself, Barry felt a little comforted. 

“There’s been talk that the fire that destroyed the Garricks’ stables last week was deliberately set,” she said. “I have reason to believe that’s true.” 

There was a breath of stunned silence before a flurry of gasps and whispers overtook it. 

“I have the testimony of two of the Garricks’ stablehands -- two men held in high regard by Mister Garrick, and who have no motive for telling falsehoods -- that they saw, at different times, a person unknown to them on the property on the morning that the fire started,” the sheriff continued, raising her voice above the chatter. “Each man believed the stranger to be a new hired hand or a buyer interested in viewing the horses. Neither had any reason to be suspicious of the man, who was dressed well and behaving in an appropriate manner. The Garricks confirmed to me that no buyers or new hires were on the property at the time. The stranger was nowhere to be found after the incident began, and the description fits no person known to me. 

“More than this -- as many of you already know -- Silas Stone was held at gunpoint two days ago by masked men, and a large quantity of cash money and valuables were stolen from his home. Mister Stone’s son Victor was able to pursue the thieves a short distance, and his description of one of the men matches the description of the stranger involved in the fire. With these incidents in mind, I also have evidence that suggests that the damage done to the Dibnys’ general store was also the work of these miscreants.

“I ask you now if anyone else has observed suspicious behavior or the presence of any people unknown to you on your property. If you don’t wish to speak now, you may speak to me after this meeting in private.” 

Mr. Reyes stood up uneasily from his seat next to his wife, hat in hand. “Our oldest, Jaime -- he went out in our fields yesterday and found a whole half-mile of fence knocked down. We thought it was a gust of wind, ma’am, but the posts weren’t rotten. It shouldn’t have fallen in dry soil.” 

“Wait. I had a bottle of brandy go missing a few weeks back! Not regular brandy, the good, expensive stuff,” Mr. Gold said suddenly. “I thought Bea miscounted the inventory.” 

“I didn’t miscount _shit,_ ” Miss Bea snapped. “I still say you and Beetle were three sheets to the wind and drank it yourselves.” 

The reverend made an aggrieved sound. “Language, miss! This is a house of the Lord.”

More voices rose, blending together in a clamor: 

“The Kents’ cattle have been let loose a half-dozen times, haven’t they, Clark? It’s been goin’ on for months now, I reckon. . . .”

“The latch on our barn door was broken . . . .”

“My turnips were uprooted a few weeks back! They didn’t even take ‘em, just tossed ‘em aside. I just thought one o’ them rambunctious Curry kids done it.” 

“ _Rambunctious_?” Mrs. Curry growled. “Why, you two-bit-----!”

“There was a hole torn in my chicken wire,” someone else piped up. “We lost three good hens!”

And that was enough of that. “Come on now,” Barry said firmly, half-rising from the pew. “One at a time, please! Let folks talk.” 

The noise subsided a bit. Most people sat back down, but Mr. Reyes didn’t. He looked upset, wringing his hat in his hands. “Sheriff Prince, who are these people? Bandits? Rustlers? What’s to be done about them? My children, Sheriff -- what about their safety?” 

There were murmurs of agreement. Barry could certainly understand his fear; the Reyes family lived next to the Stones, and knowing that your neighbor had been held up by gun-toting ruffians would be enough to put the fear of God into the calmest man, let alone an anxious father.

“I understand your concern, and I can assure you I’m actively investigating, Mister Reyes,” the sheriff said. “I’m doing everything in my power to find where these men came from and why they’ve chosen to target our town. But I need you all to take precautions. Keep your doors locked at night. Come to me at once if you should see someone not known to you on your land. Have your children stay closer to home. Do all this, and I promise you I’ll have your answers as soon as I do.” 

The crowd erupted again. 

“What good does it do to stay inside if desperados are going to burn our houses down?” Ralph asked angrily. Barry turned in the pew to look at him in surprise, but Ralph caught his eye and quickly looked away. 

“Should we fire on them, if we get ‘em in our sights?” 

“No,” Sheriff Prince said immediately. “I won’t have a bloodbath. These men, whoever they are, will be brought to justice the right way, under the full measure of the law.” 

“So we can’t defend ourselves? Our families?” someone cried. “That’s ludicrous!”

The sheriff held up her hand. “By no means am I saying that you can’t defend yourselves -- but violence should only be done if you’re in the position of genuinely fearing for your life. I don’t want anyone going off on their own trying to hunt these people down. They’ve proven themselves dangerous enough. Please, let me do my job and protect you.”

There was a stir from the back of the church -- Luthor had gotten to his feet. 

“If I might have a moment to speak, madam sheriff?” 

_No_ , Barry thought crossly, but Sheriff Prince inclined her head. Luthor strode into the aisle, his hands linked behind his back as he surveyed the watchful crowd. 

“This is all most alarming, friends, and my deepest sympathies go to you all. These days it’s unfortunately all too common for miscreants and rabble-rousers to take advantage of the vulnerable communities on our frontiers. It seems to me that the citizens of this town are under attack by an organized and dangerous coalition of criminals. 

“With all due respect -- and I do have the most immense respect for you, Sheriff -- the task of keeping order is too much to ask of one person.”

Barry sucked his breath in sharply between his teeth. He felt Hal’s fingers curl around his on the bench. 

“Is that so,” Sheriff Prince said. 

“No offense intended, of course. Your work is exemplary. But it’s quite obvious to me that you’re incapable of protecting this fine town alone. If the citizens are indeed being targeted by thieves and mischief-makers, it will take more than one lawman and a few unofficial deputies to bring them to justice.” 

“What are you proposing, Mister Luthor?”

“I spoke with Mister Wayne about my concern for you, and as a gesture of his intent to join me in bringing progress and prosperity to this great place, he has agreed to help me fund a private, trained militia from Metropolis to assist you as deputies.” Luthor turned to observe the silent gathering, his palms spread. “They could establish a garrison in town. They would offer additional security -- protect your shops from thieves, ensure that your homes were safe and your children in no danger of violence. With their experience, they could quickly route out these ruffians and demonstrate that Central City is not to be trifled with. I think we would all rest easier knowing that our streets were safe.”

“Oh, boy,” Hal muttered, and Barry looked over to see Clark rising to his full, intimidating height, his arms crossed as he stared Luthor down. 

“I know you think we’re all dumb as dirt, Lex,” Clark said levelly. “But you’re mistaken if you believe for a second we don’t see what you’re doin’ here. You don’t think there’s somethin’ suspicious about this? You don’t think we know what an advantage it would be for you to have your own bought soldiers holdin’ court in town?”

“Really, Mister Kent. Are you accusing me of something?”

“I’m accusin’ you of always actin’ in your own best interests first. All this talk of progress and prosperity and safety -- you want what you’ve always wanted, and this is just another step towards you gettin’ your way and building that railroad. And if you think we’re goin’ to step back and allow it, you haven’t been listenin’ to a word I’ve said.” 

“Oh, I assure you I heard you. Your argument was very. . . succinct,” Luthor said dryly. 

Clark reddened. “I’ve apologized for that.”

“I also wasn’t aware that you were the mayor, Kent. Or indeed, that you had any position of power over your neighbors. I believe the fine people of Central City can decide for themselves.”

“Yes, we can,” Arthur Curry said. “But Clark can give his opinion too, Luthor. What kind of militia? Soldiers? Policemen? Would they answer to the sheriff, or to you?”

“I have connections in Metropolis, and Mr. Wayne will help me hire only the best men. They would be retired soldiers, experienced and well-disciplined. They would answer to Sheriff Prince, of course. This isn’t a coup -- merely a courtesy.”

“A courtesy,” Clark echoed incredulously. “You never cease to amaze me, Lex.”

“The feeling’s mutual.” 

“Nobody here believes that you’re doin’ this out of the goodness of your heart. This is exactly the kind of thing you’ve been waitin’ for, havin’ your bought men in every corner of town. I know the truth, Lex. I know you’ve been askin’ around for bidders on your railway. I know you’ve been promisin’ your investors that you’ve got the project on lock.” 

“You know no such thing,” Bruce Wayne said. 

Everyone hushed up. 

Clark looked like he’d taken an elbow in the gut. “I. . . pardon me?” he stammered.

“I said you’re misinformed. Or a liar.” Wayne didn’t so much as glance up from adjusting his oversized solitaire-diamond cufflinks. He seemed thoroughly bored. “I’ve been personally involved in all these conversations, and I can state with absolute certainty that your accusations against Mister Luthor are misguided at best and defamatory at worst.” 

Sheriff Prince straightened up. “Mister Wayne, there’s no call for that.” 

“Kent seems happy enough to disparage others, Sheriff,” Wayne said idly. “’ll take the word of a respected philanthropist over the word of a cow-puncher.”

All the color fled from Clark’s face. He moved his lips soundlessly for an agonizing moment and then slowly sank back onto the bench. The church was quiet enough to hear a pin drop. 

Wayne uncrossed his legs and rose, brushing off his coattails with a careless sweep of his wrist. “Are we done here? I have important business to attend to today.”

Sheriff Prince’s expression was unreadable. “I believe quite enough has been said today.” 

Luthor and Wayne left first, and everyone trickled out after them. There was very little chatter, only a few hushed whispers, and nobody seemed to have an inclination to linger. Barry stayed in his seat until the church was empty, Hal and Guy still beside him. 

“Well, that was a fuckin’ cock-up,” Guy said. “Jeezus.” 

“He can’t seriously do this, can he?” Hal asked. His thumb stroked down the back of Barry’s hand. “Bar? Hey, you okay?”

Barry shook himself. “Yes, I’m . . . I’m fine. Can you round up Wally and Kyle? I’ll meet you back by the wagon in a few minutes.” 

It didn’t take long to find Clark, because he hadn’t gone far. He was sitting against the wall beneath the trellis at the back of the church, his head in his hands. Barry hesitated, toying with the buckle of one suspender before he made up his mind and strode over. 

“Clark?” 

Clark tipped up his hat enough to offer him a strained smile.

Barry took it as an invitation, sitting down on the grass. “Don’t be embarrassed. You’re right, you know. Luthor’s up to something, and he’s not fooling anyone. No one’s going to let him come in here and take over. Who told you about the buyers?”

“Lois. She’s been keepin’ me in the loop. Her information is always good -- I know it’s true. I don’t. . . I don’t understand why he’d---” His voice broke, and Barry laid a worried hand on his arm. “He wasn’t. . . . I really thought he----”

The trellis above their heads rattled, and Barry looked up, startled, to see Wayne’s ward peering down at them from the roof. 

“Hi, Clark,” the boy chirped. “Hi, Wally’s uncle!” 

Barry grimaced. “Uh, Wally’s not up there too, is he?” 

“Nope. Wally’s other uncles said it was time for him and Kyle to go home. He’s got a lot of uncles.” 

“Come on down from there, Dick,” Clark said, with false cheer. “You know Br---Mister Wayne doesn’t want you climbin’ up the trellis no more.” 

“I didn’t! I climbed up from the window.”

“You’re up on the roof either way, ain’t you?”

Dick sighed, momentarily despondent, and then scampered down the trellis. “Are we comin’ over tonight?” he asked as soon he’d gotten his feet back on the ground. 

Something flashed over Clark’s face faster than Barry could read it. “No,” he said. He jammed his hat further down his head and got up. “Sorry, Dick. Not today. I’ll see you around, kiddo, but I gotta go now.” He ruffled Dick’s dark hair and then started off, tossing a “Bye, Barry,” over his shoulder. 

Barry stood there watching him go and then realized that Dick was still there, staring up at him. 

“You don’t look like Wally,” the boy said critically. “His hair is red, and yours is yellow.” 

“That’s true,” Barry said, amused despite himself. “He’s still my nephew, though.”

“He’s fun! I like him a whole lot. We’re best friends.” 

“That so? Well, he likes you a whole lot too. We’ll have to have you over for supper one of these days, if it works out.”

Dick beamed at him, flashing his missing teeth. 

He was a nice kid, Barry thought as he walked back to their wagon. It was just a pity that he had the guardian he did; there was no chance that Wayne was going to let Dick have supper at some lowly farmer’s house. He probably shouldn’t have even put the idea in the boy’s head. It would only end up disappointing him. 

***

“Does this look good?” Kyle asked. His tongue poked through his teeth as he held his sketchbook at arm’s length, squinting at the page; he tipped the book for Barry to see. “My nose doesn’t look right.” 

Barry sat forward in his chair, holding his half-peeled potato out so he wouldn’t drip it on Kyle’s drawing. The three pastel-colored children were obviously Kyle, Donna, and Connor, and the likenesses were good, but the angle made Kyle look like Cyrano de Bergerac. “It’s tad long, maybe.” 

Kyle made a noise of frustration. “I’ve redrawn it four times. I can’t get it right.” 

“You will. Keep at it.” 

Inside the house, Itty started barking up a storm. Barry heard Hal tell her to hush up, but she kept on. 

“Somebody’s coming,” Kyle said confidently. 

“I suppose so.” Barry went back to peeling his potatoes, but he kept a wary eye on the road. These days, it seemed everyone had a story to tell about a stranger or two wandering about their land, skulking around the outskirts of town. 

Sure enough, the sound of hoof beats announced the arrival of visitors -- two horses, two riders, passing along the line of bushes toward the barn. The first rider pulled ahead and emerged. 

Barry shaded his eyes. The man was tall and built big, and for just a second he thought it might be Clark, but then he realized it was a stranger: a handsome black man in uniform, with no hat on his cropped hair. 

“Johnny!” Kyle screamed. His sketchbook landed on the porch, pastels rolling every which way. “Hal! _Hal!_ It’s _Johnny!”_

He took off running, hurtling down toward the drive as fast as his skinny legs could manage. Barry got up, alarmed, and started to call after Kyle not to get too close to the horse’s hooves, but Mr. Stewart leapt down from the saddle, running on foot to catch Kyle up in his arms.

Stewart carried him back toward the house, both of them laughing and carrying on. Kyle was making enough noise to wake the dead, so Barry wasn’t startled when Hal threw the door open. 

“What the hell’r you yellin’----?” Hal froze, his mouth dropping open. He stumbled down the porch steps. “John?”

“Hal.” A smile twitched around the man’s severe mouth. He was younger than Barry had imagined, his face almost unlined except for the scar that ran across his temple and notched into his ear. He eased Kyle down to the ground, but Kyle clung to his waist. 

“You sonuvabitch,” Hal breathed. 

“Ma was a good God-fearing woman,” Stewart said, and he grabbed Hal around the neck to embrace him fiercely. 

Wally tugged on Barry’s shirt. “Who’s that?” 

“Jackass,” Hal cried. His fingers dug into Stewart’s back so hard that Barry winced a little, but Stewart just chuckled. “How come you didn’t wire us and say you were comin’? Guy’s gonna be pissed he wasn’t here!”

“I didn’t think we’d be here so quick. Lord Almighty.” Stewart looped one arm around each of their waists, leaning back to look them over. “I swear you’re twice as tall, Kyle! And Hal, somebody finally managed to fatten you up. God above, you two are a sight for sore eyes. Where’s Guy?”

Kyle’s eyes lit up. “With _Miss Tora_ ,” he sing-songed. 

Stewart grinned. “Must be a story there. Can’t wait to hear it. And speaking of which----” He turned around, dragging Kyle and Hal with him, and Barry realized that the second rider had drawn up, so silently that he hadn’t even noticed. 

“Who’s she?” Kyle asked.

“That’s the missus,” John said. 

Mrs. Stewart was a lovely woman, with lively brown eyes and smooth dark hair in a single long braid down her back. She was sitting side-saddle in a full skirt, but she swung down gracefully and extended her gloved palm to Hal. “Catarina,” she said, in a sweetly accented voice. “Kat, to my friends.” 

Hal shook her hand. “Well! Who’d’ve thought. You want congratulations or condolences?”

Mrs. Stewart laughed. She had a nice laugh, low and almost purring. “Congratulations for now. Tomorrow my answer might be different.” 

“You know, I had a notion it was a bad idea introducing you two," John said. 

Kyle blushed as he shook Mrs. Stewart’s hand and properly introduced himself, and when she remarked on what a handsome young man he was, even his ears turned pink. 

“Huh,” Hal said. “Is that how John looked when he first met you, ma’am?”

“Hey, now. You’ve got no leg to stand on, Hal -- all things considered,” Stewart said. His keen eyes turned towards Barry, who was still standing on the porch, clutching a potato like a simpleton. 

Well, so much for a good first impression. Barry was exasperated to find that his palms were sweating; he wiped them discreetly on his britches as he came down the steps. 

Stewart surveyed him from his hat to his boots and then held out his hand with a polite smile. “John Stewart.” 

“Barry Allen. A pleasure to finally meet you, Mister Stewart.” 

“Likewise.” He seemed to notice Wally then, who was hiding behind Barry’s legs. His smile warmed into something more genuine. “And who’s this?”

“I’m Wally,” Wally announced. “Are you taller than Clark?”

Hal laughed. 

“How about you finish introducing yourself?” Barry suggested.

“Uncle Barry’s my uncle,” Wally said. “I live here. Kyle and me are brothers. I think you’re taller than Clark.” 

Stewart’s eyes crinkled up. “I’ll take your word for it, little man.” 

Barry finally remembered his manners and went inside to make some refreshments for their guests while Hal took their horses to the barn. Mrs. Stewart complimented his mint tea, and he spent a few minutes talking to her about the proper way to brew sun tea. She seemed a very pleasant woman, smart and unflappable. 

As soon as the Stewarts’ sparse luggage was tucked away in the shed and they were all settled on the porch with their repast, Kyle brought out his sketchbook. Stewart looked carefully at each drawing and had something thoughtful to say about each one. He seemed to know something of the technical skills involved. Perhaps he was an artist himself, Barry thought. 

Guy returned just before supper. His reunion with Stewart was filled with more expletives than were strictly necessary, but it was a very boisterous group that gathered around the table that night. Barry listened to the rambling, spirited conversation with interest and joined in occasionally, but he couldn’t quite manage to settle his nerves. 

He knew how much Stewart meant to Hal. He knew, from the things that Hal had said, that Stewart must have been an extraordinary man -- he had to have been kind to take in three strangers and in possession of enough integrity to inspire such deep loyalty from them. And now, knowing what he knew about what exactly Stewart had done for Hal, when any man in his position could have easily thrown a friendless orphan back to the wolves with no compunctions, Barry was disposed to think extremely well of him. 

Whether he would think well of Barry was less certain. He supposed that he was anxious for Stewart to see that Hal was comfortable in his new life -- that he was cared for, that he was needed. 

The evening passed in merry disorder. It was late when Kyle and Wally were finally sent to bed, but the adults stayed up talking a while longer on the porch, the conversation taking a more serious turn as the Stewarts finally explained what had happened in Korugar Gulch. 

As it turned out, Stewart had left Nashville fully expecting to come back within the month, but he hadn’t been after railroad thieves, as he’d told them -- he’d gotten word that Sinestro suspected that Hal was hiding in Nashville and had sent two of his lackeys to root him out.

“I wish I’d told you the truth,” Stewart said. “I thought for sure you’d bolt if you knew they were in town.”

Hal smiled ruefully. “I probably would’ve,” he admitted. 

“The last thing I wanted was for you to take off on your own. They would've picked you off. So I thought if I confronted the source, maybe I could cut off his whole operation at the neck. I’d been wanting to ever since you told me about it, but I never could get the support to do it -- it’s just one little town in the grand scheme of things, and there were always bigger fish to fry.” 

Frustrated by his fellow marshals’ inaction, Stewart had traveled to Texas to scope out the situation for himself. The next six months had been like an unfortunate comedy of errors, or perhaps the plot of a bad dime novel -- he’d been waylaid by bad weather and locals wanting his help to solve problems of their own, gotten lost in the Louisiana bayou, and, to cap it off, he was robbed of his horse on the Texas plains and left for dead with a pistol-whip to the head for his trouble. 

He’d spent several weeks recovering from that injury, and indeed, still experienced the occasional headache, but by the time he’d been able to reach a city large enough to send a wire home, he’d received no reply. Fearing that something had happened, he’d gone on to Korugar Gulch to see if Hal had been taken there. He hadn’t, of course, but he’d met Kat, who had been spearheading a secret citizens’ rebellion, and gotten involved in the coup. 

It hadn’t been easy. Even with the help of the local sheriffs that Stewart had been able to enlist, it had been a protracted and violent fight, with casualties on both sides. Sinestro had fallen through their grasp for months, as slippery as a snake and with eyes and ears all over the county, but at long last they’d been able to devise a trap. Their triumph had brought another round of fighting, this time among the citizens themselves; some wanted him hanged immediately for his crimes, while others wanted him taken away from the town and delivered to the courts. There had been far more of the former than the latter, and Stewart had found himself in the unenviable position of having to escort Sinestro and the captured members of his posse safely to Galveston for a trial. 

Only then was Stewart able to start searching for Hal, Guy, and Kyle. Using his contacts in Nashville, he’d found that Hal had signed a contract with the mail-order agency and had a friend locate a copy of Hal and Barry’s marriage license. Contacting Tom Kalmaku had gotten him the right address, as well as confirmation that Hal’s ‘brothers’ had accompanied him to Keystone. 

“I had a devil of a time getting my hands on that address,” Stewart concluded. “Tom didn’t believe it was me at first. Said I was dead. I don’t suppose you all were paying on my house the whole time.” 

“Sorry,” Guy said, not sounding particularly sorry. “Bank took it.” 

Stewart rubbed his forehead. “I figured. Probably didn’t bring any of my things either.”

“Bank took it. Well, most of it. Anything they could resell. We got some of your clothes, though. I’m wearin’ your bloomers right now, iff’n you want ‘em back.” 

Stewart sighed. “Keep them. _Please._ ” 

Barry had been watching Hal attentively through all of this, alert for any signs of distress. Hal looked contemplative rather than upset by all the talk of Sinestro; Barry knew he was still unable to wrap his head around the idea of Sinestro being in custody of the law, but his mood seemed easy enough, if not quite as cheerful as he’d been earlier. 

Guy went out to the shed with Stewart to help lay out some straw mattresses and show him where the well was before bed. Mrs. Stewart stayed on the porch to finish her tea, looking up at the stars overhead. 

“It’s lovely here,” she said. “Very peaceful. Very quiet. How long has this farm been in your family, Barry?”

“Not long, but I was born and raised in town. I built this place with my late wife.”

Mrs. Stewart nodded. After a moment, she sighed, setting down her tea, and looked over at Hal. “You don’t remember me, do you?” she said. 

Hal hesitated, and Barry could tell that he didn’t. “‘Fraid I don’t, ma’am.”

“Kat,” she reminded him. “I wasn’t sure you would.” She smoothed her hands down the creases of her calico skirt. “My father Arturo was the butcher. Sinestro ordered him whipped because he couldn’t pay his due for the posse’s protection.” 

Hal had gone very still. 

“I watched Sinestro’s men drag my father out of our house. I was sure that they’d murder him. And then you rode up. You begged him for my father’s life. You said that Sinestro could prove himself a just man, that this was a chance to show everyone that his might was tempered by mercy. I don’t know how you knew to say it the way you did, but he let my father go. He gave us another week to come up with the money.” 

Hal shifted, the toe of his boot digging into the dirt. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she said. “No, that’s not what I mean. When we saw. . . .” Her voice lowered, but her eyes didn’t waver from his face. “It shamed me. It shames me still. You rescued my father. I hope you can forgive me for not being brave enough to rescue you.” 

Hal’s head jerked up sharply. “No, I don’t -- I don’t want sorrys from you neither. It wasn’t, it wasn’t your fault. I wish I’d done more. I shoulda done more.” 

“You did. You escaped. You were the first to win your freedom, and because of you, word spread about what was happening in Korugar Gulch.” She smiled, but her smile looked tired, and maybe a little sad. “You sent John to us. Thank you.” 

When Guy and Stewart returned, a round of good-nights were said, and Barry waited restlessly for everyone to take to their beds. As soon as he could, he steered Hal into the bedroom and embraced him. Hal leaned into him, and little by little, his muscles un-knotted under Barry’s hands. 

After a while, Hal stirred. “Bed, I think.”

“I’m tired too.” Barry smoothed a hand through Hal’s hair and began to change into his nightclothes. By the time he was done, Hal had only gotten around to taking off his trousers. He was sitting on the bed, looking at the scar on his thigh.

Hal fingered the knotted tissue. “It’s ugly, ain’t it?” he said. “It wasn’t even his brand. He just stole an iron from one of the ranchers. ‘S a little funny, now that I think about it. Strictly speakin’, this actually says I belong to old Señora Ochoa at the Circle C Diamond ranch.” He laughed softly. “There are worse fates, I figure. She weren’t bad lookin’ for her age.” 

“Hey, now,” Barry said, and he was gratified to hear Hal chuckle. He came to sit on the bed. “Can I?” he asked, and when Hal nodded, he touched the scar with the pad of one thumb, feeling the rough contrast between it and the baby-soft skin around it. He stroked gently, wishing he could erase the marks with just a touch so that Hal might never have to look at it and remember again. But a scar was a scar, and memories were memories. Everyone had a cross to bear. 

“You know, it weren’t even the pain of it so much. But they paraded me in front of the whole town. Stripped me buck-naked and made everyone watch me cry like a baby ‘cause it hurt so bad by the end. You ever smelled burnin’ human skin, Bar?” 

Barry shook his head wordlessly. 

“It ain’t nice. When it was over, they sent folks home and left me tied to the post all night. I was mostly faint by then. Somebody covered me up with a blanket. Bless whoever they were -- they’d’ve got their hide tanned for doin’ it if they were caught. I always wished I could’ve thanked ‘em.” He let his head rest against Barry’s shoulder. “Kat can think what she likes about it all, but she’s wrong about one thing.” 

“What’s that?” 

“I didn’t up and leave ‘cause of some noble plan. I ran ‘cause I was scared. I wasn’t thinkin’ of anything but savin’ my own hide. I reckon I deserved to get caught for that.”

***

When Barry saw the petition hanging there, bold as daylight, in the window of Dibny’s Dry Goods, he couldn’t believe his eyes. 

No. No, there was no way. 

The shop was empty except for Ralph, who was sweeping up some spilled flour by the back door. He jumped as Barry came in, his broom half-raised like he meant to deal somebody a wallop with it. 

“Oh, it’s you.” Ralph lowered the broom sheepishly. “Don’t barrel in like that! A body’s liable to hit first and ask questions later these days.” 

Barry jabbed a finger at the storefront window. “Did you know somebody put that up?”

Ralph began sweeping again. “Yes.” 

“Ralph, that’s a petition. That’s _Luthor’s_ petition.” 

“I can read.” 

“Then what’s it doing in your window?” 

Ralph set his broom aside with an exasperated look. “I don’t see why you’re all worked up. It’s just to ask for another town hall to discuss things. It’s very democratic. It can’t hurt to talk it over.”

“It’s an invitation for Luthor to talk his way into getting what he wants.”

“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad this once.”

“What?” 

“Barry, don’t look at me like that.” Ralph leaned across the counter, his voice lowering. “You know that I like Sheriff Prince. She’s a swell sheriff, I’m not sayin’ otherwise. But maybe the job’s got too big for any one person to handle. I don’t trust Luthor, but that don’t mean he ain’t capable of talkin’ sense once in a great while. What could it hurt to have a few extra eyes around ‘til we run off these troublemakers?”

Barry couldn’t believe his ears. “Ralph, you know who Luthor is,” he protested. “You know he’d never lend a hand if someone wasn’t going to drop money into it.”

Ralph made a frustrated noise. “Me and Susie can’t afford another lick, alright? We’re gonna be payin’ for that new window for months.” 

“Letting Luthor run buck-wild isn’t going to fix your window.” 

“Good God, Barry, this ain’t about windows -- we’re talkin’ about arson! The Garricks nearly lost everything. Look at what happened to Silas! Folks are wonderin’ who’s gonna be next.”

“So that’s reason enough to justify indebting ourselves to Lex Luthor, of all people?” Barry shook his head, incredulous. “I can’t believe you.” 

Ralph straightened up from the counter, his jaw clenched. “Yeah? I bet you’d be singin’ a different tune if it were _your_ farm on the chopping block. Forget it. I’ve got to get back to work anyhow. So if you ain’t buyin’ anything, you’d be better to be on your way.” 

Hal was still posting Arkillo when Barry stormed out and swung up onto the wagon bench. 

“We’re leaving,” he said. 

“What? You didn’t buy nothin’. I thought we needed----”

“We need to go. Please.” 

“Alright.” Hal untied the tethers he’d just made, closing the back flap of the wagon bed before hopping up beside Barry. 

The wind helped bleed some of the angry heat from Barry’s face, but the further they got from town, the more confused and betrayed he felt. 

“Luthor’s petition,” he said glumly. “Ralph signed it. It’s posted up on his window.” 

Hal stayed quiet. 

“I don’t understand what’s happening,” Barry sighed. He rested his elbows on his knees and watched Hal deftly handle the reins as he steered Arkillo around a mud puddle in the road. “What’s happening to us? It’s like the whole town’s gone mad.” 

Hal looked at him from the corner of his eye. “People are scared, Bar.” 

“I know. I _know_. But Luthor? Of all the people to turn to for a solution -- Luthor? He’s cheated and manipulated people his whole life. He’s threatened us, tried to buy us out, harassed and lied and bullied us for years.” Barry rubbed his face. “Maybe Luthor’s right.” 

“How so?”

“There was one time . . . he was asking me to sell, like he does every year. You know what he told me? He said we were trying to stop progress, and the world was moving on without us. He said that we cared more about keeping things the same than we cared about the greater good.” 

Hal squeezed his knee, but he didn’t say anything. They rode in silence for a while. 

“D’you think they’ll get enough names for the petition?” 

“I don’t know. But people trust Ralph. Him signing will make others follow, I’m sure. People are tired of waiting for Sheriff Prince to catch these people. Every time something happens and she comes too late, more folks will fall in line. They want results. They want someone caught. Everyone here always jumps at the chance to string up a stranger.”

That . . . that had sounded a far sight too bitter. 

Hal pulled back, bringing Arkillo to a gradual stop. He gathered the reins in one gloved hand and put the other on Barry’s knee. “Okay,” he said. “Is this about your pa?” 

Barry looked down at his feet. “No. Yes. I don’t know. It reminds me of how things went after. . . . Everybody was hollering for his blood, because he wasn’t one of them, not really. They killed an innocent man because they wanted the fuss and trouble to stop more than they wanted justice done for my mother. For me.” 

“I wish it’d been different for you,” Hal said. “I wish none of it had happened.”

“If wishes were horses. . . . “

“Yeah.” Hal clicked his tongue and got Arkillo moving again. “Who do you trust in this town, Barry? Really, truly trust?”

Barry looked at him quizzically. “You. Clark. Sheriff Prince. Jay and Joan. Even Guy, I guess.” He frowned. “If you’d asked me a few minutes ago, I’d’ve said Ralph.”

“Don’t give up on him just yet. He’s shook up, that’s all. Is there anybody else?”

“Vic. The Currys.” 

“Hmm.” Hal scratched his chin. “Jay’s still recoverin’, and at their age I don’t reckon he and Joan should be ridin’ around anyhow, but Ollie and Dinah will definitely join if we ask. That’s not a bad number, I don’t think.” 

“Hal, I’m not following you.” 

“For a posse, of course.” 

“What?”

“Luthor does actually have a point under all the shit -- you’re right about that. This is too much for one sheriff to handle on her own. It’s too much even for a few deputies to handle. But if we had a solid number of people, all spread around from town to the farms. . . .”

“There’s no way. That would take a lot of coordination, not to mention a lot of time. It would be dangerous. People still have to work, Hal. They can’t be everywhere at once.” 

“You’re forgettin’ that we got John and Kat now -- two people who’ve just spent near a whole year fightin’ a man with more influence than morals. Sound familiar?”

“You can’t be serious.” 

“Oh, I am. Dead serious. I told you, maybe some folks are givin’ in to fear, but you got power here too. Put out a call. Ask for help. Let John give us some advice, make some strategies. I've got more than a little experience myself. We could organize our own patrols.”

“Hal. . . . “ But a small seed of conviction had been planted, and now he couldn’t put the idea out of his head. 

Hal smiled at him beatifically. 

“We couldn’t.” 

“If you say so.” 

Barry sat there, turning the thought over and over in his mind as the seed began to sprout. It was mad. It was dangerous. He had the children to think about, work to do, things to take care of. But what good would any of it be if Luthor got his way? The town would never survive as it was now. The farm would probably fail. People would leave for greener pastures. Everything was at risk already. “You think I can convince folks?” 

“I know you can,” Hal said stoutly. “And I’ll be there right beside you the whole way. I let this happen before, and I ain’t lettin’ it happen again. There’s things here worth protectin'.” He reached for Barry’s hand and squeezed. “This -- this life we got -- it’s worth it all, ain’t it?”

Barry laced their fingers together. “You bet your boots it is.” 

* * *

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes: 
> 
> Oh, they've got it bad. 
> 
> Before everyone comes for Bruce with pitchforks, keep in mind that he always has an ulterior motive.
> 
> Arikaree -- also known as the Arikara, Sahnish, Ree, or Hundi people. 
> 
> Cow-puncher -- Mildly derogatory term for cowboy or cattleman/rancher.


End file.
